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DECEMBER  LOVE 
ROBERT  HICHENS 


DECEMBER    LOVE 


BY 

ROBERT   HICHENS 

AUTHOR   OF    "the    GARDEN    OF   ALLAH," 
"BELLA  DONNA,"   ETC 


iqj^  5-^^ 


NEW  Xar^  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    I92I,    1922, 
BY  ROBERT   S.    HICHENS 


DECEMBER  LOVE.    I 


PRINTED  IN  THE   UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


DECEMBER  LOVE 


2229200 


DECEMBER   LOVE 

PART  ONE 


CHAPTER  I 

A  LICK  CRAVEN,  who  was  something  in  the  Foreign  Of- 
fice, had  been  living  in  London,  except  for  an  interval  of 
military  service  during  the  war,  for  several  years,  and  had 
plenty  of  interesting  friends  and  acquaintances,  when  one 
autumn  day,  in  a  club,  Francis  Braybrooke,  who  knew  every- 
body, sat  down  beside  him  and  began,  as  his  way  was,  talking 
of  people.  Braybrooke  talked  well  and  was  an  exceedingly 
agreeable  man,  but  he  seldom  discussed  ideas.  His  main 
interest  lay  in  the  doings  of  the  human  race,  the  "human  ani- 
mal," to  use  a  favourite  phrase  of  his,  in  what  the  human  race 
was  "up  to."  People  were  his  delight.  He  could  not  live 
away  from  the  centre  of  their  activities.  He  was  never  tired 
of  meeting  new  faces,  and  would  go  to  endless  trouble  to 
bring  an  interesting  personality  within  the  circle  of  his  ac- 
quaintance. Craven's  comparative  indifference  about  society, 
his  laziness  in  social  matters,  was  a  perpetual  cause  of  surprise 
to  Braybrooke,  who  nevertheless  was  always  ready  to  do  Craven 
a  good  turn,  whether  he  wanted  it  done  to  him  or  not.  Indeed, 
Craven  was  indebted  to  his  kind  old  friend  for  various  in- 
troductions which  had  led  to  pleasant  times,  and  for  these  he 
was  quite  grateful.  Braybrooke  was  much  older  than  most 
people,  though  he  seldom  looked  it,  and  decades  older  than 
Craven,  and  he  had  a  genial  way  of  taking  those  younger 
than  himself  in  charge,  always  with  a  view  to  their  social  ad- 
vancement. He  was  a  very  ancient  hand  at  the  social  game; 
he  loved  to  play  it;  and  he  wanted  as  many  as  possible  to 

7 


S  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  one 

join  in,  provided,  of  course,  that  they  were  "suitable"  for 
such  a  purpose.  Perhaps  he  slightly  resembled  "the  world's 
governess,"  as  a  witty  woman  had  once  called  him.  But  he 
was  really  a  capital  fellow  and  a  mine  of  worldly  wisdom. 

On  the  occasion  in  question,  after  chatting  for  about  half 
an  hour,  he  happened  to  mention  Lady  Sellingworth — "Adela 
Sellingworth,"  as  he  called  her.  Craven  did  not  know  her, 
and  said  so  in  the  simplest  way. 

"I  don't  know  Lady  Sellingworth." 

Braybrooke  sat  for  a  moment  in  silence  looking  at  Craven 
over  his  carefully  trimmed  grey  and  brown  beard. 

"How  very  strange!"  he  said  at  last. 

"Why  is  it  strange?" 

"All  these  years  in  London  and  not  know  Adela  Selling- 
worth  !" 

"I  know  about  her,  of  course.  I  know  she  was  a  famous 
beauty  when  King  Edward  was  Prince  of  Wales,  and  was 
tremendously  prominent  in  society  after  he  came  to  the  throne : 
But  I  have  never  seen  her  about  since  I  have  been  settled  in 
London.  To  tell  the  honest  truth,  I  thought  Lady  Selling- 
worth  was  what  is  called  a  back  number." 

"Adela  Sellingworth  a  back  number!" 

Braybrooke  bristled  gently  and  caught  his  beard-point  with 
his  broad-fingered  right  hand.  His  small,  observant  hazel 
eyes  rebuked  Craven  mildly,  and  he  slightly  shook  his  head, 
covered  with  thick,  crinkly  and  carefully  brushed  hair. 

"Well — but,"  Craven  protested.  "But  surely  she  long  ago 
retired  from  the  fray!    Isn't  she  over  sixty?" 

"She  is  about  sixty.    But  that  is  nothing  nowadays." 

"No  doubt  she  had  a  terrific  career." 

"Terrific !    What  do  you  mean  exactly  by  terrific  ?" 

"Why,  that  she  was  what  used  to  be  called  a  professional 
beauty,  a  social  ruler,  immensely  distinguished  and  smart  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing.  But  I  understood  that  she  suddenly 
gave  it  all  up.  I  remember  someone  telling  me  that  she  abdi- 
cated, and  that  those  who  knew  her  best  were  most  surprised 
about  it." 

"A  woman  told  you  that,  no  doubt." 

"Yes,  I  think  it  was  a  woman." 

"Anything  else?" 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  9 

"If  I  remember  rightly,  she  said  that  Lady  Sellingworth 
was  the  very  last  woman  one  had  expected  to  do  such  a  thing, 
that  she  was  one  of  the  old  guard,  whose  motto  is  'never  give 
up,'  that  she  went  on  expecting,  and  tacitly  demanding,  the 
love  and  admiration  which  most  men  only  give  with  sincerity 
to  young  women  long  after  she  was  no  more  young  and  had 
begun  to  lose  her  looks.    Perhaps  it  was  all  lies." 

"No,  no.     There  is  something  in  it." 

He  looked  meditative. 

"It  certainly  was  a  sudden  business,"  he  presently  added. 
**I  have  often  thought  so.  It  came  about  after  her  return  from 
Paris  some  ten  years  ago — that  time  when  her  jewels  were 
stolen." 

"Were  they?"  said  Craven. 

"Were  they!" 

Braybrooke's  tone  just  then  really  did  rather  suggest  the 
world's  governess. 

"My  dear  fellow — yes,  they  were,  to  the  tune  of  about  fifty 
thousand  pounds." 

"What  a  dreadful  business !    Did  she  get  them  back  ?" 

"No.  She  never  even  tried  to.  But,  of  course,  it  came  out 
eventually." 

"It  seems  to  me  that  everything  anyone  wishes  to  hide  does 
come  out  eventually  in  London,"  said  Craven,  with  perhaps 
rather  youthful  cynicism.  "But  surely  Lady  Sellingworth 
must  have  wanted  to  get  her  jewels  back.  What  can  have  in- 
duced her  to  be  silent  about  such  a  loss  ?" 

"It's  a  mystery.  I  have  wondered  why — often,"  said  Bray- 
brooke,  gently  stroking  his  beard. 

He  even  slightly  wrinkled  his  forehead,  until  he  remembered 
that  such  an  indulgence  is  apt  to  lead  to  permanent  lines, 
whereupon  he  abruptly  became  as  smooth  as  a  baby,  and  added : 

"She  must  have  had  a  tremendous  reason.     But  I'm  not 

aware  that  anyone  knows  what  it  is  unless "  he  paused 

meditatively.  "I  have  sometimes  suspected  that  perhaps  Sey- 
mour Portman " 

"Sir  Seymour,  the  general?" 

"Yes.  He  knows  her  better  than  anyone  else  does.  He 
cared  for  her  when  she  was  a  girl,  through  both  her  mar- 
riages, and  cares  for  her  iust  as  much  still.  I  believe." 


10  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  one 

"How  were  her  jewels  stolen?"  Craven  asked. 

Braybrooke  had  roused  his  interest.  A  woman  who  lost 
jewels  worth  fifty  thousand  pounds,  and  made  no  effort  to 
get  them  back,  must  surely  be  an  extraordinary  creature. 

"They  were  stolen  in  Paris  at  the  Gare  du  Nord  out  of  a 
first-class  compartment  reserved  for  Adela  Sellingworth.  That 
much  came  out  through  her  maid." 

"And  nothing  was  done?" 

"I  believe  not.  Adela  Sellingworth  is  said  to  have  behaved 
most  fatalistically  when  the  story  came  out.  She  said  the 
jewels  were  gone  long  ago,  and  there  was  an  end  of  it,  and 
that  she  couldn't  be  bothered." 

"Bothered! — about  such  a  loss?" 

"And,  what's  more,  she  got  rid  of  the  maid." 

"Very  odd !" 

"It  was.  Very  odd !  Her  abdication  also  was  very  odd  and 
abrupt.  She  changed  her  way  of  living,  gave  up  society,  let 
her  hair  go  white,  allowed  her  face  to  do  whatever  it  chose, 
and,  in  fact,  became  very  much  what  she  is  now — the  most 
charming  old  woman  in  London." 

"Oh,  is  she  charming?" 

"Is  she  charming!" 

Braybrooke  raised  his  thick  eyebrows  and  looked  really 
pitiful. 

"I  will  see  if  I  can  take  you  there  one  day,"  he  continued, 
after  a  rebuking  pause.  "But  don't  count  on  it.  She  doesn't 
see  very  many  people.  Still,  I  think  she  might  like  you. 
You  have  tastes  in  common.  She  is  interested  in  everything 
that  is  interesting — except,  perhaps,  in  love  affairs.  She  doesn't 
seem  to  care  about  love  affairs.  And  yet  some  young  girls 
are  devoted  to  her." 

"Perhaps  that  is  because  she  has  abdicated." 

Braybrooke  looked  at  Craven  with  rather  sharp  inquiry. 

"I  only  mean  that  I  don't  think,  as  a  rule,  young  girls  are 
very  fond  of  elderly  women  whose  motto  is  'never  give  up,' " 
Craven  explained. 

"Ah?" 

Braybrooke  was  silent.  Then,  lighting  a  cigarette,  he  re- 
marked : 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  11 

"Youth  IS  very  charming,  but  one  must  say  that  it  is  set 
free  from  cruelty." 

"I  agree  with  you.  But  what  about  the  old  guard?"  Craven 
asked.     "Is  that  always  so  very  kind?" 

Then  he  suddenly  remembered  that  in  London  there  is  an 
"old  guard"  of  men,  and  that  undoubtedly  Braybrooke  belonged 
to  it;  and,  afraid  that  he  was  blundering,  he  changed  the  con- 
versation. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  FORTNIGHT  later  Craven  received  a  note  from  his  old 
friend  saying  that  Braybrooke  had  spoken  about  him  to 
"Adela  Sellingworth,"  and  that  she  would  be  glad  to  know 
him.  Braybrooke  was  off  to  Paris  to  stay  with  the  Marignys, 
but  all  Craven  had  to  do  was  to  leave  a  card  at  Number  i8a, 
Berkeley  Square,  and  when  this  formality  had  been  accom- 
plished Lady  Sellingworth  would  no  doubt  write  to  him  and 
suggest  an  hour  for  a  meeting.  Craven  thanked  his  friend, 
left  a  card  at  Number  i8a,  and  a  day  or  two  later  received  an 
invitation  to  go  to  tea  with  Lady  Sellingworth  on  the  follow- 
ing Sunday.  He  stayed  in  London  on  purpose  to  do  this, 
although  he  had  promised  to  go  into  the  country  from  Sat- 
urday to  Monday.  Braybrooke  had  succeeded  in  rousing  keen 
interest  in  him.  It  was  not  Craven's  habit  to  be  at  the  feet 
of  old  ladies.  He  much  preferred  to  them  young  or  youngish 
women,  unmarried  or  married.  But  Lady  Sellingworth  "in- 
trigued" him.  She  had  been  a  reigning  beauty.  She  had  "lived" 
as  not  many  English  women  had  lived.  And  then — the  stolen 
jewels  and  her  extraordinary  indifference  about  their  loss ! 

Decidedly  he  wanted  to  know  her! 

Number  i8a,  Berkeley  Square  was  a  large  town  mansion, 
and  on  the  green  front  door  there  was  a  plate  upon  which 
was  engraved  in  bold  lettering,  "The  Dowager  Countess  of 
Sellingworth."  Craven  looked  at  this  plate  and  at  the  big 
knocker  above  it  as  he  rang  the  electric  bell.  Almost  as  soon 
as  he  had  pressed  the  button  the  big  door  was  opened,  and 
a  very  tall  footman  in  a  pale  pink  livery  appeared.  Behind 
him  stood  a  handsome,  middle-aged  butler. 

A  large  square  hall  was  before  Craven,  with  a  hooded  chair 
and  a  big  fire  burning  on  a  wide  hearth.  Beyond  was  a  fine 
staircase,  which  had  a  balustrade  of  beautifully  wrought  iron- 
work with  gold  ornamentations.  As  he  gave  his  hat,  coat  and 
stick  to  the  footman — after  taking  his  name,  the  butler  had 

12 


CHAPTER  n  DECEMBER  LOVE  13 

moved  away,  and  was  pausing  not  far  from  the  staircase — 
Craven  suddenly  felt  as  if  he  stood  in  a  London  more  solid, 
more  dignified,  more  peaceful,  even  more  gentlemanlike,  than 
the  London  he  was  accustomed  to.  There  seemed  to  be  in  this 
house  a  large  calm,  an  almost  remote  stillness,  which  put  mod- 
ern Bond  Street,  just  round  the  corner,  at  a  very  great  dis- 
tance. As  he  followed  the  butler,  walking  softly,  up  the 
beautiful  staircase,  Craven  was  conscious  of  a  flavour  in  this 
mansion  which  was  new  to  him,  but  which  savoured  of  spacious 
times,  when  the  servant  question  was  not  acute,  when  decent 
people  did  not  move  from  house  to  house  like  gipsies  chang- 
ing camp,  when  flats  were  unknown — spacious  times  and  more 
elegant  times  than  ours. 

The  butler  and  Craven  gained  a  large  landing  on  which 
was  displayed  a  remarkable  collection  of  oriental  china.  The 
butler  opened  a  tall  mahogany  door  and  bent  his  head  again  to 
receive  the  murmur  of  Craven's  name.  It  was  announced, 
and  Craven  found  himself  in  a  great  drawing-room,  at  the 
far  end  of  which,  by  a  fire,  were  sitting  three  people.  They 
were  Lady  Sellingworth,  the  faithful  Sir  Seymour  Portman, 
and  a  beautiful  girl,  slim,  fair,  with  an  athletic  figure,  and 
vividly  intelligent,  though  rather  sarcastic,  violet  eyes.  This 
was  Miss  Beryl  Van  Tuyn.  (Craven  did  not  know  who  she 
was,  though  he  recognized  at  once  the  erect  figure,  faithful, 
penetrating  eyes  and  curly  white  hair — cauliflower  hair — of  the 
general,  whom  he  had  often  seen  about  town  and  "in  attend- 
ance" on  royalty  at  functions.) 

Lady  Sellingworth  got  up  to  receive  him.  As  she  did  so 
he  was  almost  startled  by  her  height. 

She  was  astonishingly  tall,  probably  well  over  six  feet,  very 
slim,  thin  even,  with  a  small  head  covered  with  rather  wavy 
white  hair  and  set  on  a  long  neck,  sloping  shoulders,  long, 
aristocratic  hands  on  which  she  wore  loose  white  gloves,  nar- 
row, delicate  feet,  very  fine  wrists  and  ankles.  Her  head 
reminded  Craven  of  the  head  of  a  deer.  As  for  her  face, 
once  marvellously  beautiful  according  to  the  report  of  com- 
petent judges  who  had  seen  all  the  beauties  of  their  day, 
it  was  now  quite  frankly  a  ruin,  lined,  fallen  in  here  and  there, 
haggard,  drawn.  Nevertheless,  looking  upon  it,  one  could 
guess  that  once  upon  a  time  it  must  have  been  a  face  with 


14.  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  one 

a  noble,  almost  imperial,  outline,  perhaps  almost  insolently 
striking,  the  arrogant  countenance  of  a  conqueror.  When 
gazing  at  it  one  gazed  at  the  ruin,  not  of  a  cottage  or  of  a  gim- 
crack  villa,  but  at  the  ruin  of  a  palace.  Lady  Sellingworth's  eyes 
were  very  dark  and  still  magnificent,  like  two  brilliant  lamps 
in  her  head.  A  keen  intelligence  gazed  out  of  them.  There 
was  often  something  half  sad,  half  mocking  in  their  expres- 
sion. But  Craven  thought  that  they  mocked  at  herself  rather 
than  at  others.  She  was  very  plainly  dressed  in  black,  and 
her  dress  was  very  high  at  the  neck.  She  wore  no  ornaments 
except  a  wedding  ring,  and  two  sapphires  in  her  ears,  which 
were  tiny  and  beautiful. 

Her  greeting  to  Craven  was  very  kind.  He  noticed  at 
once  that  her  manner  was  as  natural  almost  as  a  frank,  manly 
schoolboy's,  carelessly,  strikingly  natural.  There  could  never, 
he  thought,  have  been  a  grain  of  affectation  in  her.  The  idea 
even  came  into  his  head  that  she  was  as  natural  as  a  tramp. 
Nevertheless  the  stamp  of  the  great  lady  was  imprinted  all 
over  her.  She  had  a  voice  that  was  low,  very  sensitive  and 
husky. 

Instantly  she  fascinated  Craven.  Instantly  he  did  not  care 
whether  she  was  old  or  young,  in  perfect  preservation  or  a 
ruin.  For  she  seemed  to  him  penetratingly  human,  simply  and 
absolutely  herself  as  God  had  made  her.  And  what  a  rare 
joy  that  was,  to  meet  in  London  a  woman  of  the  great  world 
totally  devoid  of  the  smallest  shred  of  make-believe!  Craven 
felt  that  if  she  appeared  before  her  Maker  she  would  be  exactly 
as  she  was  when  she  said  how  do  you  do  to  him. 

She  introduced  him  to  Miss  Van  Tuyn  and  the  general, 
made  him  sit  next  to  her,  and  gave  him  tea. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  began  talking,  evidently  continuing  a  con- 
versation which  had  been  checked  for  a  moment  by  the  arrival 
of  Craven.  She  was  obviously  intelligent  and  had  enormous 
vitality.  She  was  also  obviously  preoccupied  with  her  own 
beauty  and  with  the  effect  it  was  having  upon  her  hearers. 
She  not  only  listened  to  herself  while  she  spoke;  she  seemed 
also  to  be  trying  to  visualize  herself  while  she  spoke.  In  her 
imagination  she  was  certainly  watching  herself,  and  noting 
with  interest  and  pleasure  her  young  and  ardent  beauty,  which 
seemed  to  Craven  more  remarkable  when  she  was  speaking 


CHAPTER  11  DECEMBER  LOVE  15 

than  when  she  was  silent.  She  must,  Craven  thought,  often 
have  stood  before  a  mirror  and  carefully  "memorized"  herself 
in  all  her  variety  and  detail.  As  he  sat  there  listening  he 
could  not  help  comparing  her  exquisite  bloom  of  youth  with 
the  ravages  of  time  so  apparent  in  Lady  Sellingworth,  and  being 
struck  by  the  inexorable  cruelty  of  life.  Yet  there  was  some- 
thing which  persisted  and  over  which  time  had  no  empire — 
charm.  On  that  afternoon  the  charm  of  Lady  Sellingworth's 
quiet  attention  to  her  girl  visitor  seemed  to  Craven  even  greater 
than  the  charm  of  that  girl  visitor's  vivid  vitality. 

Sir  Seymour,  who  had  the  self-contained  and  rather  de- 
tached manner  of  the  old  courtier,  mingled  with  the  straight- 
forward self-possession  of  the  old  soldier  thoroughly  accus- 
tomed to  dealing  with  men  in  difficult  moments,  threw  in  a 
word  or  two  occasionally.  Although  a  grave,  even  a  rather 
sad-looking  man,  he  was  evidently  entertained  by  Miss  Van 
Tuyn's  volubility  and  almost  passionate,  yet  not  vulgar,  egoism. 
Probably  he  thought  such  a  lovely  girl  had  a  right  to  admire 
herself.  She  talked  of  herself  in  modern  Paris  with  the 
greatest  enthusiasm,  cleverly  grouping  Paris,  its  gardens,  its 
monuments,  its  pictures,  its  brilliant  men  and  women  as  a 
decor  around  the  one  central  figure — Miss  Beryl  Van  Tuyn. 

"Why  do  you  never  come  to  Paris,  dearest?"  she  presently 
said  to  Lady  Sellingworth.  "You  used  to  know  it  so  very 
well,  didn't  you?" 

"Oh,  yes ;  I  had  an  apartment  in  Paris  for  years.  But  that 
was  almost  before  you  were  born,"  said  the  husky,  sympathetic 
voice  of  her  hostess. 

Craven  glanced  at  her.     She  was  smiling. 

"Surely  you  loved  Paris,  didn't  you  ?"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn. 

"Very  much,  and  understood  it  very  well." 

"Oh — that!  She  understands  everything,  doesn't  she,  Sir 
Seymour  ?" 

"Perhaps  we  ought  to  except  mathematics  and  military 
tactics,"  he  replied,  with  a  glance  at  Lady  Sellingworth  half 
humorous,  half  affectionate.  "But  certainly  everything  con- 
nected with  the  art  of  living  is  her  possession." 

"And — the  art  of  dying?"  Lady  Sellingworth  said,  with  a 
lightly  mocking  sound   in   her  voice. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  opened  her  violet  eyes  very  wide. 


16  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  one 

"But  is  there  an  art  of  dying?  Living — yes;  for  that  is 
being  and  is  continuous.    But  dying  is  ceasing." 

"And  there  is  an  art  of  ceasing,  Beryl.  Some  day  you  may 
know  that." 

"Well,  but  even  very  old  people  are  always  planning  for 
the  future  on  earth.  No  one  expects  to  cease.  Isn't  it  so, 
Mr.  Craven?" 

She  turned  to  him,  and  he  agreed  with  her  and  instanced 
a  certain  old  duchess  who,  at  the  age  of  eighty,  was  preparing 
for  a  tour  round  the  world  when  influenza  stepped  in  and 
carried  her  off,  to  the  great  vexation  of  Thomas  Cook  and 
Son. 

"We  must  remember  that  that  duchess  was  an  American," 
observed  Sir  Seymour. 

"You  mean  that  we  Americans  are  more  determined  not 
to  cease  than  you  English?"  she  asked.  "That  we  are  very 
persistent?" 

"Don't  you  think  so?" 

"Perhaps  we  are." 

She  turned  and  laid  a  hand  gently,  almost  caressingly,  on 
Lady  Sellingworth's. 

"I  shall  persist  until  I  get  you  over  to  Paris,"  she  said. 
"I  do  want  you  to  see  my  apartment,  and  my  bronzes — par- 
ticularly my  bronzes.    When  were  you  last  in  Paris?" 

"Passing  through  or  staying — do  you  mean?" 

"Staying." 

Lady  Sellingworth  was  silent  for  an  instant,  and  Craven 
saw  the  half  sad,  half  mocking  expression  in  her  eyes. 

"I  haven't  stayed  in  Paris  for  ten  years,"  she  said. 

She  glanced  at  Sir  Seymour,  who  slightly  bent  his  curly  head 
as  if  in  assent. 

"It's  almost  incredible,  isn't  it,  Mr.  Craven  ?"  said  Miss  Van 
Tuyn.  "So  unlike  the  man  who  expressed  a  wish  to  be  buried 
in  Paris." 

Craven  remembered  at  that  moment  Braybrooke's  remark 
in  the  club  that  Lady  Sellingworth's  jewels  were  stolen  in  Paris 
at  the  Gare  du  Nord  ten  years  ago.  Did  Miss  Van  Tuyn 
know  about  that?  He  wondered  as  he  murmured  something 
non-committal. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  now  tried  to  extract  a  word  of  honour  prom- 


CHAPTER  II  DECEMBER  LOVE  17 

ise  from  Lady  Sellingworth  to  visit  her  in  Paris,  where,  it 
seemed,  she  Hved  very  independently  with  a  dame  de  covirpagme, 
who  was  always  in  one  room  with  a  cold  reading  the  novels 
of  Paul  Bourget.  ("Bourget  keeps  on  writing  for  her!"  the 
gay  girl  said,  not  without  malice.) 

But  Lady  Sellingworth  evaded  her  gently. 

"I'm  too  lazy  for  Paris  now,"  she  said.  "I  no  longer  care 
for  moving  about.  This  old  town  house  of  mine  has  be- 
come to  me  like  my  shell.  I'm  lazy,  Beryl;  I'm  lazy.  You 
don't  know  what  that  is ;  nor  do  you,  Mr.  Craven.  Even  you, 
Seymour,  you  don't  know.     For  you  are  a  man  of   action, 

and  at  Court  there  is  always  movement.    But  I,  my  friends " 

She  gave  Craven  a  deliciously  kind  yet  impersonal  smile.  "I 
am  a  contemplative.  There  is  nothing  oriental  about  me,  but  I 
am  just  a  quiet  British  contemplative,  untouched  by  the  un- 
rest of  your  age." 

"But  it's  your  age,  too !"  cried  Miss  Van  Tuyn. 

"No,  dear.     I  was  an  Edwardian." 

"I  wish  I  had  known  you  then!"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn  im- 
pulsively. 

"You  would  not  have  known  me  then,"  returned  Lady  Sell- 
ingworth, with  the  slightest  possible  stress  on  the  penultimate 
word. 

Then  she  changed  the  conversation.  Craven  felt  that  she 
was  not  fond  of  talking  about  herself. 


CHAPTER  III 

THAT  day  Craven  walked  away  from  Lady  Sellingworth's 
house  with  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  leaving  Sir  Seymour  Port- 
man  behind  him. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  was  staying  with  a  friend  at  the  Hyde  Park 
Hotel,  and,  as  she  said  she  wanted  some  air,  Craven  offered 
to  accompany  her  there  on  foot. 

"Do !"  she  said  in  her  frank  and  very  conscious  way.  "I'm 
afraid  of  London  on  a  Sunday." 

"Afraid !" 

"As  I'm  afraid  of  a  heavy,  dull  person  with  a  morose  ex- 
pression.   Please  don't  be  angry." 

Craven  smiled. 

"I  know!  Paris  is  much  lighter  in  hand  than  London  on 
a  Sunday." 

"Isn't  it?  But  there  are  people  in  London!  Isn't  she  a 
precious  person?" 

"Lady  Sellingworth  ?" 

"Yes.  You  have  marvellous  old  women  in  London  who 
do  all  that  we  young  people  do,  and  who  look  astonishing. 
They  might  almost  be  somewhere  in  the  thirties  when  one 
knows  they  are  really  in  the  sixties.  They  play  games,  ride, 
can  still  dance,  have  perfect  digestions,  sit  up  till  two  in 
the  morning  and  are  out  shopping  in  Bond  Street  as  fresh 
as  paint  by  eleven,  having  already  written  dozens  of  acceptances 
to  invitations,  arranged  dinners,  theatre  parties,  heaven  knows 
what!  Made  of  cast  iron,  they  seem.  They  even  manage 
somehow  to  be  fairly  attractive  to  young  men.  They  are 
living  marvels,  and  I  take  off  my  toque  to  them.  But  Lady 
Sellingworth,  quite  old,  ravaged,  devastated  by  time  one  might 
say,  who  goes  nowhere  and  who  doesn't  even  play  bridge — 
she  beats  them  all.  I  love  her.  I  love  her  wrinkled  distinc- 
tion, her  husky  voice,  her  careless  walk.  She  walks  anyhow, 
like  a  woman  alone  on  a  country  road.    She  looks  even  older 

i8 


CHAPTER  III  DECEMBER  LOVE  19 

than  she  is.    But  what  does  it  matter?    If  I  were  a  man " 


"Would  you  fall  in  love  with  her?"  Craven  interposed. 

"Oh,  no !" 

She  shot  a  blue  glance  at  him. 

"But  I  should  love  her — if  only  she  would  let  me.  But  she 
wouldn't.     I  feel  that." 

"I  never  saw  her  till  to-day.    She  charmed  me." 

"Of  course.    But  she  didn't  try  to." 

"Probably  not." 

"That's  it!  She  doesn't  try,  and  that's  partly  why  she  suc- 
ceeds, being  as  God  has  made  her.  Do  you  know  that  some 
people  hate  her?" 

"Impossible!" 

"They  do." 

"Who  do?" 

"The  young-old  women  of  her  time,  the  young-old  Edwardian 
women.  She  dates  them.  She  shows  them  up  by  looking 
as  she  does.  She  is  their  contemporary,  and  she  has  the 
impertinence  to  be  old.     And  they  can't  forgive  her  for  it." 

"I  understand,"  said  Craven.  "She  has  betrayed  the  'old 
guard.'  She  has  disobeyed  the  command  inscribed  on  their 
banner.     She  has  given  up." 

"Yes.    They  will  never  pardon  her,  never !" 

"I  wonder  what  made  her  do  it?"  said  Craven. 

And  he  proceeded  to  touch  on  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  desire 
to  get  Lady  Sellingworth  to  Paris.  He  soon  found  out  that 
she  did  not  know  about  the  jewels  episode.  She  showed 
curiosity,  and  he  told  her  what  he  knew.  She  seemed  deeply 
interested. 

"I  was  sure  there  was  a  mystery  in  her  life,"  she  said. 
"I  have  always  felt  it.  Ten  years  ago!  And  since  then  she 
has  never  stayed  in  Paris!" 

"And  since  then — from  that  moment — she  has  betrayed  the 
'old  guard.' " 

"How  ?    I  don't  understand." 

Craven  explained.  Miss  Van  Tuyn  listened  with  an  intensity 
of  interest  which  flattered  him.  He  began  to  think  her  quite 
lovely,  and  she  saw  the  pretty  thought  in  his  mind. 

When  he  had  finished  she  said : 

"No  attempt  to  recover  the  lost  jewels,  the  desertion  of 


20  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  one 

Paris,  the  sudden  change  into  old  age!  What  do  you  make 
of  it?" 

"I  can  make  nothing.  Unless  the  chagrin  she  felt  made 
her  throw  up  everything  in  a  fit  of  anger.  And  then,  of 
course,  once  the  thing  was  done  she  couldn't  go  back." 

"You  mean — go  back  to  the  Edwardian  youthfulness  she 
had  abandoned?" 

"Yes.  One  may  refuse  to  grow  old,  but  once  one  has 
become  definitely,  ruthlessly  old,  it's  practically  impossible  to 
jump  back  to  a  pretence  of  the  thirties." 

"Of  course.  It  would  frighten  people.  But — it  wasn't 
that." 

"No?" 

"No.  For  if  she  had  felt  the  loss  of  her  jewels  so  much 
as  you  suggest,  she  would  have  made  every  effort  to  recover 
them." 

"I  suppose  she  would." 

"The  heart  of  the  mystery  lies  in  her  not  wishing  to  try 
to  get  the  jewels  back.  That,  to  me,  is  inexplicable.  Because 
we  women  love  jewels.  And  no  woman  carries  about  jewels 
worth  fifty  thousand  pounds  without  caring  very  much  for 
them." 

"Just  what  I  have  thought,"  said  Craven. 

After  a  short  silence  he  added : 

"Could  Lady  Sellingworth  possibly  have  known  who  had 
stolen  the  jewels,  do  you  think?" 

"What !    And  refrained  from  denouncing  the  thief !" 

"She  might  have  had  a  reason." 

Miss  Van  Tuyn's  keen  though  still  girlish  eyes  looked 
sharply  into  Craven's  for  an  instant. 

"I  believe  you  men,  you  modern  men,  are  very  apt  to  think 
terrible  things  about  women,"  she  said. 

Craven  warmly  defended  himself  against  this  abrupt  accusa- 
tion. 

"Well,  but  what  did  you  mean?"  persisted  Miss  Van  Tuyn. 
"Now,  go  against  your  sex  and  be  truthful  for  once  to  a 
woman." 

"I  really  don't  know  exactly  what  I  meant,"  said  Craven. 
"But  I  suppose  it's  possible  to  conceive  of  circumstances  in 


CHAPTER  III  DECEMBER  LOVE  21 

which  a  woman  might  know  the  identity  of  a  thief  and  yet 
not  wish  to  prosecute." 

"Very  well.  I'll  let  you  alone,"  she  rejoined.  "But  this 
mystery  makes  Lady  Sellingworth  more  fascinating  to  me  than 
ever.  I'm  not  particularly  curious  about  other  people.  I'm 
too  busy  about  myself  for  that.  But  I  would  give  a  great 
deal  to  know  a  little  more  of  her  truth.  Do  you  remember 
her  remark  when  I  said  'I  wish  I  had  known  you  then'?" 

"Yes.     She  said,  'You  would  not  have  known  me  then.'  " 

"There  have  been  two  Adela  Sellingworths.  And  I  only 
know  one.  I  do  want  to  know  the  other.  But  I  am  almost 
sure  I  never  shall.  And  yet  she's  fond  of  me.  I  know 
that.  She  likes  my  being  devoted  to  her.  I  feel  she's  a  book 
of  wisdom,  and  I  have  only  read  a  few  pages." 

She  walked  on  quickly  with  her  light,  athletic  step.  Just 
as  they  were  passing  Hyde  Park  Corner  she  said : 

"I  think  I  shall  go  to  one  of  the  'old  guard.'  " 

"Why?"  asked  Craven. 

"You  ask  questions  to  which  you  know  the  answers,"  she 
retorted. 

And  then  they  talked  of  other  things. 

When  they  reached  the  hotel  and  Craven  was  about  to  say 
good-bye,  Miss  Van  Tuyn  said  to  him: 

"Are  you  coming  to  see  me  one  day?" 

Her  expression  suggested  that  she  was  asking  a  question 
to  which  she  knew  the  answer,  in  this  following  the  example 
just  given  to  her  by  Craven. 

"I  want  to,"  he  said. 

"Then  do  give  me  your  card." 

He  gave  it  to  her. 

"We  both  want  to  know  her  secret,"  she  said,  as  she  put 
it  into  her  card-case.  "Our  curiosity  about  that  dear,  delightful 
woman  is  a  link  between  us." 

Craven  looked  into  her  animated  eyes,  which  were  strongly 
searching  him  for  admiration.  He  took  her  hand  and  held 
it  for  a  moment. 

"I  don't  think  I  want  to  know  Lady  Sellingworth's  secret 
if  she  doesn't  wish  me  to  know  it,"  he  said. 

"Now — is  that  true?" 


22  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  one 

"Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  genuine  earnestness  which  seemed 
to  amuse  her.    "Really,  really  it  is  true." 

She  sent  him  a  slightly  mocking  glance. 

"Well,  I  am  less  delicate.  I  want  to  know  it,  whether  she 
wishes  me  to  or  not.  And  yet  I  am  more  devoted  to  her 
than  you  are.     I  have  known  her  for  quite  a  long  time." 

"One  can  learn  devotion  very  quickly,"  he  said,  pressing 
her  hand  before  he  let  it  go. 

"In  an  afternoon?" 

"Yes,  in  an  afternoon." 

"Happy  Lady  Sellingworth !"  she  said. 

Then  she  turned  to  go  into  the  hotel.  Just  before  she  passed 
through  the  swing  door  she  looked  round  at  Craven.  The 
movement  of  her  young  head  was  delicious. 

"After  all,  in  spite  of  the  charm  that  won't  die,"  he  thought, 
"there's  nothing  like  youth  for  calling  you." 

He  thought  Lady  Sellingworth  really  more  charming  than 
Miss  Van  Tuyn,  but  he  knew  that  the  feeling  of  her  hand 
in  his  would  not  have  thrilled  something  in  him,  a  very  in- 
timate part  of  himself,  as  he  had  just  been  thrilled. 

He  felt  almost  angry  with  himself  as  he  walked  away,  and 
he  muttered  under  his  breath: 

"Damn  the  animal  in  me!" 


CHAPTER  IV 

NOT  many  days  later  Craven  received  a  note  from  Miss 
Van  Tuyn  asking  him  to  come  to  see  her  at  a  certain 
hour  on  a  certain  day.  He  went  and  found  her  alone  in  a 
private  sitting-room  overlooking  the  Park.  For  the  first  time 
he  saw  her  without  a  hat.  With  her  beautiful  corn-coloured 
hair  uncovered  she  looked,  he  thought,  more  lovely  than  when 
he  had  seen  her  at  Lady  Sellingworth's.  She  noted  that  thought 
at  once,  caught  it  on  the  wing  through  his  mind,  as  it  were, 
and  caged  it  comfortably  in  hers. 

"I  have  seen  the  'old  guard,'  "  she  said,  after  she  had  let 
him  hold  and  press  her  hand  for  two  or  three  seconds. 

"What,  the  whole  regiment?"  said  Craven. 

She  sat  down  on  a  sofa  by  a  basket  of  roses.  He  sat  down 
near  her. 

"No;  only  two  or  three  of  the  leaders." 

"Do  I  know  them  ?" 

"Probably.    Mrs.  Ackroyde?" 

"I  know  her." 

"Lady  Archie  Brook?" 

"Her,  too." 

"I've  also  seen  Lady  Wrackley." 

"I  have  met  Lady  Wrackley,  but  I  can  hardly  say  I  know 
her.  Still,  she  shows  her  teeth  at  me  when  I  come  into  a 
room  where  she  is." 

"They  are  wonderful  teeth,  aren't  they?" 

"Astonishing !" 

"And  they  are  her  own — not  by  purchase." 

"Are  you  sure  she  doesn't  owe  for  them  ?" 

"Positive;  except,  of  course,  to  her  Creator.  Isn't  it  won- 
derful to  think  that  those  three  women  are  contemporaries 
of  Lady  Sellingworth  ?" 

"Indeed  it  is!  But  surely  you  didn't  let  them  know  that 
you  knew  they  were  ?    Or  shall  I  say  know  they  are  ?" 

23 


24  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  one 

She  smiled,  showing  perfect  teeth,  and  shook  her  corn- 
coloured  head. 

"You  see,  I'm  so  young  and  live  in  Paris !  And  then  I'm 
American.  They  have  no  idea  how  much  I  know.  I  just 
let  them  suppose  that  I  only  knew  they  were  old  enough  to 
remember  Lady  Sellingworth  when  she  was  still  a  reigning 
beauty.     I  implied  that  they  were  buds  then." 

"And  they  accepted  the  implication?" 

"Oh,  they  are  women  of  the  world!  They  just  swallowed 
it  very  quietly,  as  a  well-bred  person  swallows  a  small,  easy- 
going bonbon." 

Craven  could  not  help  laughing.  As  he  did  so  he  saw  in 
Miss  Van  Tuyn's  eyes  the  thought : 

"You  think  me  witty,  and  you're  not  far  out." 

"And  did  you  glean  any  knowledge  of  Lady  Sellingworth?" 
he  asked. 

"Oh,  yes;  quite  a  good  deal.  Mrs.  Ackroyde  showed  me 
a  photograph  of  her  as  she  was  about  eleven  years  ago." 

"A  year  before  the  plunge !" 

"Yes.  She  looked  very  handsome  in  the  photograph.  Of 
course,  it  was  tremendously  touched  up.  Still,  it  gave  me  a 
real  idea  of  what  she  must  once  have  been.  But,  oh!  how 
she  has  changed!" 

"Naturally !" 

"I  mean  in  expression.  In  the  photograph  she  looks  vain, 
imperious.  Do  you  know  how  a  woman  looks  who  is  always 
on  the  watch  for  new  lovers?" 

"Well — yes,  I  think  perhaps  I  do." 

"Lady  Sellingworth  in  the  photograph  has  that  on  the  pounce 
expression." 

"That's  rather  awful,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes ;  because,  of  course,  one  can  see  she  isn't  really  at 
all  young.  It's  only  a  fausse  jeunesse  after  all,  but  still  very 
effective.  The  gap  between  the  woman  of  the  photograph  and 
the  woman  of  i8a  Berkeley  Square  is  as  the  gulf  between 
Dives  and  Lazarus.  I  shouldn't  have  loved  her  then.  But 
perhaps — perhaps  a  man  might  have  thought  he  did.  I  mean 
in  the  real  way  of  a  man — perhaps." 

Craven  did  not  inquire  what  Miss  Van  Tuyn  meant  exactly 
by  that.     Instead,  he  asked : 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  25 

"And  did  these  ladies  of  the  'old  guard'  speak  kindly  of 
the  white-haired  traitress?" 

"They  were  careful.  But  I  gathered  that  Lady  Selling- 
worth  had  been  for  years  and  years  one  of  those  who  go 
on  their  way  chanting,  'Let  us  eat,  drink  and  be  merry,  for 
to-morrow  we  die.'  I  gathered,  too,  that  her  eflForts  were 
chiefly  concentrated  on  translating  into  appropriate  action  the 
third  'let  us.'  But  that  no  doubt  was  for  the  sake  of  her 
figure  and  face.  Lady  Archie  said  that  the  motto  of  Lady 
Sellingworth's  life  at  that  period  was  'after  me  the  deluge,' 
and  that  she  had  so  dinned  it  into  the  ears  of  her  friends 
that  when  she  let  her  hair  grow  white  they  all  instinctively 
put  up  umbrellas." 

"And  yet  the  deluge  never  came." 

"It  never  does.    I  could  almost  wish  it  would." 

"Now?" 

"No;  after  me." 

He  looked  deep  into  her  eyes,  and  as  he  did  so  she  seemed 
deliberately  to  make  them  more  profound  so  that  he  might 
not  touch  bottom. 

"It's  difficult  to  think  of  an  after  you,"  he  said. 

"But  there  will  be,  I  suppose,  some  day  when  the  Prince 
of  Wales  wears  a  grey  beard  and  goes  abroad  in  the  winter 
to  escape  bronchial  troubles.  Oh,  dear !  What  a  brute  Time 
is!" 

She  tried  to  look  pathetic,  and  succeeded  better  than  Craven 
had  expected. 

"I  shall  put  up  my  en  tout  cos  then,"  said  Craven  very 
seriously. 

Still  looking  pathetic,  she  allowed  her  eyes  to  stray  to  a 
neighbouring  mirror,  waited  for  a  moment,  then  smiled. 

"Time's  a  brute,  but  there's  still  plenty  of  him  for  me,"* 
she  said.     "And  for  you,  too." 

"He  isn't  half  so  unpleasant  to  men  as  to  women,"  said 
Craven.  "He  makes  a  very  unfair  distinction  between  the 
sexes." 

"Naturally — because  he's  a  man." 

"What  did  Lady  Wrackley  say?"  asked  Craven,  returnirg 
to  their  subject. 

"Why  do  you  ask  specially  what  she  said?" 


26  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  one 

"Because  she  has  a  reputation,  a  bad  one,  for  speaking  her 
mind." 

"She  certainly  was  the  least  guarded  of  the  'old  guard.' 
But  she  said  she  loved  Lady  Sellingworth  now,  because  she 
was  so  changed." 

"Physically,  I  suppose." 

"She  didn't  say  that.    She  said  morally." 

"That  wasn't  stupid  of  her." 

"Just  what  I  thought.  She  said  a  moral  revolution  had 
taken  place  in  Lady  Sellingworth  after  the  jewels  were  stolen." 

"That  sounds  almost  too  tumultuous  to  be  comfortable." 

"Like  'A  Tale  of  Two  Cities'  happening  in  one's  interior." 

"And  what  did  she  attribute  such  a  phenomenon  to?" 

"Well,  she  took  almost  a  clerical  view  of  the  matter." 

"How  very  unexpected !" 

"She  said  she  believed  that  Adela — she  called  her  Adela — 
that  Adela  took  the  loss  of  her  jewels  as  a  punishment  for  her 
sins." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  she  used  the  word  sins?" 

"No;  she  said  'many  lapses.'     But  that's  what  she  meant." 

"Lapses  from  what?" 

"She  didn't  exactly  say.  But  I'm  afraid  she  meant  from  a 
strict  moral  code." 

"Oh,  Lord !"  said  Craven,  thinking  of  Lady  Wrackley's 
smile. 

"Why  do  you  say  that?" 

"Please — never  mind !  So  Lady  Wrackley  thinks  that  Lady 
Sellingworth  considered  the  loss  of  her  jewels  such  a  fitting 
punishment  for  her  many  lapses  from  a  strict  moral  code 
that  she  never  tried  to  get  them  back?" 

"Apparently.  She  said  that  Addie — she  called  her  Addie 
then — that  Addie  bowed  her  head." 

"Not  beneath  the  rod!  Don't  tell  me  she  used  the  word 
rod!" 

"But  she  did!" 

"Priceless!" 

"Wasn't  it?  But  women  are  like  that  when  they  belong 
to  the  'old  guard.'     Do  you  think  she  can  be  right?" 

"If  it  is  so.  Lady  Sellingworth  must  be  a  very  unusual  sort 
of  woman." 


CHAPTER  IT  DECEMBER  LOVE  27 

"She  is — now.  For  she  really  did  give  up  all  in  a  moment. 
And  she  has  never  repented  of  what  she  did,  as  far  as  any- 
one knows.     I  think " 

She  paused,  looking  thoughtful  at  the  mirror. 

"Yes  ?"  said  Craven  gently. 

"I  think  it's  rather  fine  to  plunge  into  old  age  like  that. 
You  go  on  being  young  and  beautiful  till  everyone  marvels, 
and  then  one  day — or  night,  perhaps — you  look  in  the  glass 
and  you  see  the  wrinkles  as  they  are " 

"Does  any  woman  ever  do  that?" 

"She  must  have !  And  you  say  to  yourself,  'C'est  finU'  and 
you  throw  up  the  sponge.  No  more  struggles  for  you !  From 
one  day  to  another  you  become  an  old  woman.  I  think  I  shall 
do  as  Lady  Sellingworth  has  done." 

"When?" 

"When  I'm — perhaps  at  fifty,  yes,  at  fifty.  No  man  really 
cares  for  a  woman,  as  a  woman  wants  him  to  care,  after  fifty." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Craven. 

She  sent  him  a  sharp,  questioning  glance. 

"Did  you  ever  wonder  before  you  went  to  Berkeley  Square?" 

"Perhaps  not." 

A  slight  shadow  seemed  to  pass  over  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  face. 

"I  believe  there  was  a  famous  French  actress  who  was  loved 
after  she  was  seventy,"  said  Craven. 

"Then  the  man  must  have  been  a  freak." 

"Lots  of  us  are  freaks." 

"I  don't  think  you  are,"  she  said  provocatively. 

"Why  not?" 

"I  have  my  little  private  reasons,"  she  murmured. 

At  that  moment  Craven  was  conscious  of  a  silly  desire  to* 
take  her  in  his  arms,  bundle  of  vanities  though  he  knew 
her  to  be.  He  hated  himself  for  being  so  ordinary.  But  there 
it  was ! 

He  looked  at  her  eyebrows.  They  were  dark  and  beautifully 
shaped  and  made  an  almost  unnerving  contrast  with  her  corn- 
coloured  hair. 

"I  know  what  you  are  thinking,"  she  said. 

"Impossible !" 

"You  are  thinking  that  I  darken  them.    But  I  don't." 

And  then  Craven  gave  up  and  became  frankly  foolish. 


CHAPTER  V 

THOUGH  ordinary  enough  in  her  youthful  egoism,  and 
entirely  du  jour  in  her  flagrantly  shown  vanity,  Miss  Van 
Tuyn,  as  Craven  was  to  find  out,  was  really  something  of 
an  original.  Her  independence  was  abnormal  and  was  mental 
as  well  as  physical.  She  lived  a  life  of  her  own,  and  her 
brain  was  not  purely  imitative.  She  not  only  acted  often 
originally,  but  thought  for  herself.  She  was  not  merely 
a  very  pretty  girl.  She  was  somebody.  And  somehow  she 
had  trained  people  to  accept  her  daring  way  of  life.  In  Paris 
she  did  exactly  what  she  chose,  and  quite  openly.  There  was 
no  secrecy  in  her  methods.  In  London  she  pursued  the  same 
housetop  course.  She  seldom  troubled  about  a  chaperon,  and 
would  calmly  give  a  lunch  at  the  Carlton  without  one  if  she 
wanted  to.  Indeed,  she  had  been  seen  there  more  than  once, 
making  one  of  a  party  of  six,  five  of  whom  were  men.  She 
did  not  care  for  women  as  a  sex,  and  said  so  in  the  plainest 
language,  denouncing  their  mentality  as  still  afilicted  by  a 
narrowness  that  smacked  of  the  harem.  But  for  certain  women 
she  had  a  cult,  and  among  these  women  Lady  Sellingworth 
held  a  prominent,  perhaps  the  most  prominent,  place. 

Three  days  after  his  visit  to  the  Hyde  Park  Hotel  Craven, 
having  no  dinner  invitation  and  feeling  disinclined  for  the 
well-known  formality  of  the  club  where  he  often  dined,  re- 
solved to  yield  to  a  faint  inclination  towards  a  very  mild 
Bohemianism  which  sometimes  beset  him,  and  make  his  way 
in  a  day  suit  to  Soho  seeking  a  restaurant.  He  walked  first 
down  Greek  Street,  then  turned  into  Frith  Street.  There 
he  peeped  into  two  or  three  restaurants  without  making  up 
his  mind  to  sample  their  cooking,  and  presently  was  attracted 
by  a  sound  of  guitars  giving  forth  with  almost  Neapolitan 
fervour  the  well-known  tune,  "O  Sole  Mio  !"  The  music  issued 
from  an  unpretentious  building  over  the  door  of  which  was 
inscribed,  "Ristorante  Bella  Napoli." 

28 


CHAPTER  V  DECEMBER  LOVE  29 

It  was  a  cold,  dark  evening,  and  Craven  was  feeling  for 
the  moment  rather  depressed  and  lonely.  The  music  drew 
his  thoughts  to  dear  Italy,  to  sunshine,  a  great  blue  bay, 
brown,  half-naked  fishermen  pulling  in  nets  from  the  deep 
with  careless  and  Pagan  gestures,  to  the  thoughtless,  delicious 
life  only  possible  in  the  golden  heart  of  the  South.  He  did  not 
know  the  restaurant,  but  he  hesitated  no  longer.  Never  mind 
what  the  cooking  was  like ;  he  would  eat  to  the  sound  of  those 
guitars  which  he  knew  were  being  thrummed  by  Italian  fingers. 
He  pushed  the  swing  door  and  at  once  found  himself  in  a 
room  which  seemed  redolent  of  the  country  which  everyone 
loves. 

It  was  a  narrow  room,  with  a  sanded  floor  and  the  usual 
small  tables.  The  walls  were  painted  with  volcanic  pictures 
in  which  Vesuvius  played  a  principal  part.  Vesuvius  erupted 
on  one  wall,  slept  in  the  moonlight  on  another,  at  the  end  of 
the  room  was  decked  out  in  all  the  glories  of  an  extremely 
Neapolitan  sunset.  Upon  the  ceiling  was  Capri,  stretching 
out  from  an  azure  sea.  For  the  moment  the  guitars  had  ceased, 
but  their  players,  swarthy,  velvet  eyed,  and  unmistakable  chil- 
dren of  Italy,  sat  at  ease,  their  instruments  still  held  in  brown 
hands  ready  for  further  plucking  of  the  sonorous  strings.  And 
tne  room  was  alive  with  the  uproar  of  Italian  voices  talking 
their  native  language,  with  the  large  and  unself-conscious  ges- 
tures of  Italian  hands,  with  the  movement  of  Italian  heads, 
with  the  flash  and  sparkle  of  animated  Italian  eyes.  Chianti 
was  being  drunk ;  macaroni,  minestra,  gnocchi.  Ravioli,  abaione 
were  being  eaten ;  here  and  there  Toscanas  were  being  smoked. 
Italy  was  in  the  warm  air,  and  in  an  instant  from  Craven's 
consciousness  London  was  blotted  out. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  just  inside  the  door  feeling  almost 
confused.  Opposite  to  him  was  the  padrona,  a  large  and 
lustrous  woman  with  sleepy,  ox-like  eyes,  sitting  behind  a 
sort  of  counter.  Italian  girls,  with  coal-black  hair,  slipped 
deftly  to  and  fro  among  the  tables  serving  the  customers. 
The  musicians  stared  at  Craven  with  the  fixed,  unwinking 
definiteness  which  the  traveller  from  England  begins  to  meet 
with  soon  after  he  passes  Lugano.  Where  was  a  table  for  an 
Englishman  ?" 

"Ecco,  signorino!" 


30  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  one 

An  Italian  girl  smiled  and  beckoned  with  a  sort  of  intimate 
liveliness  and  understanding  that  quite  warmed  Craven's  heart. 
There  was  a  table  free,  just  one,  under  Vesuvius  erupting. 
Craven  took  it,  quickly  ordered  all  the  Italian  dishes  he  could 
think  of  and  a  bottle  of  Chianti  Rosso,  and  then  looked  about 
the  long,  little  room.  He  looked — to  see  Italian  faces,  and  he 
saw  many;  but  suddenly,  instead  of  merely  looking,  he  stared. 
His  eyelids  quivered;  even  his  lips  parted.  Was  it  possible? 
Yes,  it  was !  At  a  table  tucked  into  a  corner  by  the  window 
were  sitting  Beryl  Van  Tuyn  and  actually — Santa  Lucia! — 
Lady  Sellingworth !  And  they  were  both  eating — what  was 
it?  Craven  stretched  his  neck — they  were  both  eating  Risotto 
alia  Milanese ! 

At  this  moment  the  guitars  struck  up  that  most  Neapolitan 
of  songs,  the  "Canzona  di  Mergellina,"  the  smiling  Italian 
girl  popped  a  heaped-up  plate  of  macaroni  blushing  gently  with 
tomato  sauce  before  Craven,  and  placed  a  straw  bottle  of 
ruby  hued  chianti  by  the  bit  of  bread  at  his  left  hand,  and 
Miss  Van  Tuyn  turned  her  corn-coloured  head  to  have  a 
good  look  at  the  room  and,  incidentally,  to  allow  the  room 
to  have  a  good  look  at  her. 

The  violet  eyes,  full  of  conscious  assurance,  travelled  from 
table  to  table  and  arrived  at  Craven  and  his  macaroni.  She 
looked  surprised,  then  sent  him  a  brilliant  smile,  turned  quickly 
and  spoke  to  Lady  Sellingworth.  The  latter  then  also  looked 
towards  Craven,  smiled  kindly,  and  bowed  with  the  careless, 
haphazard  grace  which  seemed  peculiar  to  her. 

Craven  hesitated  for  an  instant,  then  got  up  and  threading 
his  way  among  Italians,  went  to  greet  the  two  ladies.  It 
struck  him  that  Lady  Sellingworth  looked  marvellously  at  home 
with  her  feet  on  the  sanded  floor.  Could  she  ever  be  not  at 
home  anywhere?  He  spoke  a  few  words,  then  returned  to 
his  tarble  with  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  parting  sentence  in  his  ears : 
"When  you  have  dined  come  and  smoke  your  Toscana  with 
us." 

As  he  ate  his  excellently  cooked  meal  he  felt  pleasantly 
warmed  and  even  the  least  bit  excited.  This  was  a  wholly  un- 
expected encounter.  To  meet  the  old  age  and  the  radiant 
youth  which  at  the  moment  interested  him  more  than  any  other 
old  age,  any  other  radiant  youth,  in  London,   in  these  sur- 


CHAPTER  V  DECEMBER  LOVE  31 

roundings,  to  watch  them  with  the  music  of  guitars  in  his 
ears  and  the  taste  of  ravioli  on  his  lips,  silently  to  drink  to 
them  in  authentic  chianti — all  this  gave  a  savour  to  his  evening 
which  he  had  certainly  not  anticipated.  When  now  and  then 
his  eyes  sought  the  table  tucked  into  the  corner  by  the  window, 
he  saw  his  two  acquaintances  plunged  deep  in  conversation. 
Presently  Miss  Van  Tuyn  lit  a  cigarette,  which  she  smoked 
in  the  short  interval  between  two  courses.  She  moved,  and 
sat  in  such  a  way  that  her  profile  was  presented  to  the  room 
as  clearly  and  definitely  as  a  profile  stamped  on  a  finely  cut 
coin.  Certainly  she  was  marvellously  good-looking.  She  had 
not  only  the  beauty  of  colouring;  she  had  also  the  more  dis- 
tinguished and  lasting  beauty  of  line. 

An  Italian  voice  near  to  Craven  remarked  loudly,  with  a  sort 
of  coarse  sentimentality: 

"Che  bella  ragazza!" 

Another  Italian  voice  replied  : 

"Ha  ragione  di  venire  qui  con  quella  povera  vecchia!  Cotn'e 
brutta  la  vecchiezza!" 

For  a  moment  Craven  felt  hot  with  a  sort  of  intimate  anger ; 
but  the  guitars  began  "Santa  Lucia,"  and  took  him  away 
again  to  Naples.  And  what  is  the  use  of  being  angry  with 
the  Italian  point  of  view  ?  As  well  be  angry  with  the  Mediter- 
ranean for  being  a  tideless  sea.  But  he  glanced  at  the  profile 
and  remembered  the  words,  and  could  not  help  wondering 
whether  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  cult  for  Lady  Sellingworth  had  its 
foundations  in  self-love  rather  than  in  attraction  to  her  whom 
Braybrooke  had  called  "the  most  charming  old  woman  in 
London." 

Presently  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  turning  three-quarters  face,  sent 
him  a  "cofTee-look,"  and  he  saw  that  a  coffee  apparatus  of 
the  hour-glass  type  was  being  placed  on  the  table  by  the  win- 
dow. He  nodded,  but  held  up  a  clean  spoon  to  indicate  that 
his  zabaione  had  yet  to  be  swallowed.  She  smiled,  under- 
standing, and  spoke  again  to  Lady  Sellingworth,  A  few  min- 
utes later  Craven  left  his  table  and  joined  them,  taking  his 
Toscana  with  him. 

They  were  charmingly  prepared  for  his  advent.  Three  cups 
were  on  the  table,  and  coffee  for  three  was  mounting  in  the 
hour  glass.     The  two  friends  were  smoking  cigarettes. 


32  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  one 

As  he  prepared  to  sit  down  on  the  chair  placed  ready  for 
him  with  his  back  to  the  window,   Miss  Van  Tuyn  said : 

"One  minute !     Please  give  the  musicians  this !" 

She  put  five  shillings  into  his  hand. 

"And  ask  them  to  play  the  Sicilian  Pastorale,  and  'A 
Mezzanotte,'  and  the  Barcarola  di  Sorrento,  and  not  to  play 
'Funiculi,  Funicula.'    Do  you  mind?" 

"Of  course  not !     But  do  let  me " 

"No,  no !  This  is  my  little  treat  to  Lady  Sellingworth. 
She  has  never  been  here  before." 

Craven  went  round  to  the  musicians  and  carried  out  his 
directions.  As  he  did  so  he  saw  adoring  looks  of  comprehen- 
sion come  into  their  dark  faces,  and,  turning,  he  caught  a 
wonderful  smile  that  was  meant  for  them  flickering  on  the 
soft  lips  of  Miss  Van  Tuyn.  That  smile  was  as  provoca- 
tive, as  definitely  full  of  the  siren  quality,  as  if  it  had 
dawned  for  the  only  lover,  instead  of  for  three  humble  Italians, 
"hairdressers  in  the  daytime,"  as  Miss  Van  Tuyn  explained 
to  Craven  while  she  poured  out  his  coffee. 

"I  often  come  here,"  she  added.  "You're  surprised,  I  can 
see. 

"I  must  say  I  am,"  said  Craven.  "I  thought  your  beat  lay 
rather  in  the  direction  of  the  Carlton,  the  Ritz,  and  Claridge's." 

"You  see  how  little  he  knows  me!"  she  said,  turning  to 
Lady  Sellingworth. 

"Beryl  does  not  always  tread  beaten  paths,"  said  Lady 
Sellingworth  to  Craven. 

"I  hate  beaten  paths.  One  meets  all  the  dull  people  on 
them,  the  people  who  hope  they  are  walking  where  everyone 
walks.  Beaten  paths  are  like  the  front  at  Brighton  on  a 
Sunday  morning.     What  do  you  say  to  our  coffee,  dearest?" 

"It  is  the  best  I  have  drunk  for  a  long  while  outside  my 
own  house,"  Lady  Sellingworth  answered. 

Then  she  turned  to  Craven. 

"Are  you  really  going  to  smoke  a  Toscana  ?" 

"If  you  really  don't  mind?  It  isn't  a  habit  with  me,  but 
I  assure  you  I  know  how  to  do  it  quite  adequately." 

"He's  an  artist,"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn.  "He  knows  it's 
the  only  cigar  that  really  goes  with  Vesuvius.     Do  light  up!" 

"I'm  thankful  I  came  here  to-night,"  he  said.    "I  felt  very 


CHAPTER  V  DECEMBER  LOVE  33 

dull  and  terrifically  English,  so  I  turned  to  Soho  as  an  anti- 
dote. The  guitars  lured  me  in  here.  I  was  at  the  Embassy 
in  Rome  for  a  year.  In  the  summer  we  lived  at  the  Villa 
Rosebery,  near  Naples.  Ever  since  that  time  I've  had  an 
almost  childish  love  of  guitars." 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  held  up  a  hand  and  formed  "  'Sh !"  with 
her  rosy  lips. 

"It's  the  Barcarola  di  Sorrento !"  she  whispered. 

A  silence  fell  in  the  narrow  room.  The  Italian  voices  were 
hushed.  The  Italian  girls  who  waited  stood  still  very  nat- 
urally. The  padrona  dreamed  behind  her  counter  with  her 
large  arms  laid  upon  it,  like  an  Italian  woman  spread  out 
on  her  balcony  for  an  afternoon's  watching  of  the  street  be- 
low her  window.  And  Craven  let  himself  go  to  the  music, 
as  many  English  people  only  let  themselves  go  when  some- 
thing Italian  is  calling  them.  On  his  left  Miss  Van  Tuyn, 
with  one  arm  leaning  on  the  table,  listened  intently,  but  not 
so  intently  that  she  forgot  to  watch  Craven  and  to  keep  track 
of  his  mind.  On  his  right  Lady  Sellingworth  sat  very  still. 
She  had  put  away  her  only  half-smoked  cigarette.  Her  eyes 
looked  down  on  the  table  cloth.  Her  very  tall  figure  was  held  up- 
right, but  without  any  stiffness.  One  of  her  hands  was 
hidden.  The  other,  in  a  long  white  glove,  rested  on  the  table, 
and  presently  the  fingers  of  it  began  gently  to  close  and  unclose, 
making,  as  they  did  this,  a  faint  shuffling  noise  against  the 
cloth. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  glanced  at  those  fingers  and  then  again  at 
Craven,  but  for  the  moment  he  did  not  notice  her.  He  was 
standing  by  the  little  harbour  at  the  Villa  Rosebery,  looking 
across  the  bay  to  Capri  on  a  warm  summer  evening.  And 
the  sea  people  were  in  his  thoughts.  How  often  had  he 
envied  them  their  lives,  as  men  envy  those  whose  lives  are 
utterly  different  from  theirs! 

But  presently  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  persistent  and  vigorous  mind 
must  have  got  some  hold  on  his,  for  he  began  to  remember  her 
beauty  and  to  feel  the  lure  of  it  in  the  music.  And  then, 
^almost  simultaneously,  he  was  conscious  of  Lady  Sellingworth, 
>f  her  old  age  and  of  her  departed  beauty.  And  he  felt  her 
^loss  in  the  music. 

Could  such  a  woman  enjoy  listening  to  such  music?    Must 


34  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  one 

it  not  rather  bring  a  subtle  pain  into  her  heart,  the  pain  that 
Italy  brings  often  to  her  devotees,  when  the  years  have  stolen 
from  them  the  last  possibilities  of  personal  romance?  For  a 
moment  Craven  imaginatively  projected  himself  into  old  age,, 
saw  himself  with  white  hair,  a  lined  face,  heavily-veined  hands, 
faded  eyes. 

But  her  eyes  were  not  faded.  They  still  shone  like  lamps. 
Was  she,  perhaps,  the  victim  of  a  youthful  soul  hidden  in 
an  old  body,  like  trembling  Love  caged  in  a  decaying  taber- 
nacle from  which  it  could  not  escape? 

He  looked  up.  At  the  same  moment  Lady  Sellingworth 
looked  up.  Their  eyes  met.  She  smiled  faintly,  and  her  eyes 
mocked  something  or  someone;  fate,  perhaps,  him,  or  herself. 
He  did  not  know  what  or  whom  they  mocked. 

The  music  stopped,  and,  after  some  applause,  conversation 
broke  out  again. 

"Have  you  given  up  Italy  as  you  have  given  up  Paris?" 
Miss  Van  Tuyn  asked  of  Lady  Sellingworth. 

"Oh,  yes,  long  ago.  I  only  go  to  Aix  now  for  a  cure,  and 
sometimes  in  the  early  spring  to  Cap  Martin." 

"The  hotel?" 

"Yes;  the  hotel.    I  like  the  pine  woods." 

"So  do  I.  But,  to  my  mind,  there's  no  longer  a  vestige 
of  real  romance  on  the  French  Riviera.  Too  many  grand  dukes 
have  passed  over  it." 

Lady  Sellingworth  laughed. 

"But  I  don't  seek  romance  when  I  leave  London." 

"No?" 

She  looked  oddly  doubtful  for  a  moment.     Then  she  said: 

"Mr.  Craven,  will  you  tell  us  the  truth?" 

"It  depends.     What  about?" 

"Oh,  a  very  simple  matter." 

"I'll  do  my  best,  but  all  men  are  liars." 

"We  only  ask  you  to  do  your  best." 

"We !"  he  said,  with  a  glance  at  Lady  Sellingworth. 

"Yes — yes,"  she  said.     "I  go  solid  with  my  sex." 

"Then— what  is  it?" 

"Do  you  ever  go  travelling — ever,  without  a  secret  hope  of 
romance  meeting  you  on  your  travels,  somewhere,  somehow, 
wonderfully,  suddenly?     Do  you?" 


CHAPTER  V  DECEMBER  LOVE  85 

He  thought  for  a  moment.    Then  he  said: 

"Honestly,  I  don't  think  I  ever  do." 

"There!"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn  triumphantly.     "Nor  do  I." 

She  looked  half  defiantly,  half  inquisitively  at  Lady  Selling- 
worth. 

"My  dear  Beryl!"  said  the  latter,  "for  all  these  lacks  in 
your  temperament  you  must  wait." 

"Wait?    For  how  long?" 

"Till  you  are  fifty,  perhaps." 

"I  know  I  shall  want  romance  at  fifty." 

"Let  us  say  sixty,  then." 

"Or,"  interrupted  Craven,  "until  you  are  comfortably  mar- 
ried." 

"Comfortably  married!"  she  cried.    "Quelle  horreur!" 

"I  had  no  idea  Americans  were  so  romantic,"  said  Lady 
Sellingworth,  with  just  a  touch  of  featherweight  malice. 

"Americans !  I  believe  the  longing  for  romance  covers  both 
sexes  and  all  the  human  race." 

She  let  her  eyes  go  into  Craven's. 

"Only  up  till  a  certain  age,"  said  Lady  Sellingworth.  "When 
we  love  to  sit  by  the  fire,  we  can  do  very  well  without  it. 
But  we  must  be  careful  to  lay  up  treasure  for  our  old  age, 
mental  treasure.  We  must  cultivate  tastes  and  habits  which 
have  nothing  to  do  with  wildness.  A  man  in  Sorrento  taught 
me  about  that." 

"A  man  in  Sorrento!"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  suddenly  and 
sharply  on  the  alert. 

"Yes.  He  was  a  famous  writer,  and  had,  I  dare  say,  been 
a  famous  lover  in  his  time.  One  day,  as  we  drove  beyond 
the  town  towards  the  hills,  he  described  to  me  the  compensa- 
tions old  age  holds  for  sensible  people.  It's  a  question  of 
cultivating  and  preparing  the  mind,  of  filling  the  storehouse 
against  the  day  of  famine.  He  had  done  it,  and  assured  me 
that  he  didn't  regret  his  lost  youth  or  sigh  after  its  unrecov- 
erable pleasures.    He  had  accustomed  his  mind  to  its  task." 

"What  task,  dearest?" 

"Acting  in  connexion  with  the  soul — his  word  that — as  a 
thoroughly  efficient  substitute  for  his  body  as  a  pleasure 
giver." 

At  this  moment  the  adoring  eyes  of  the  three  musicians 


36  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  one 

who  were  "hairdressers  in  the  daytime"  focussed  passionately 
upon  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  distracted  her  attention.  She  felt  mas- 
culinity intent  upon  her  and  responded  automatically. 

"The  dear  boys !  They  are  asking  if  they  shall  play  the 
Pastorale  for  me.     Look  at  their  eyes !"  she  said. 

Craven  did  not  bother  to  do  that,  but  looked  instead  at 
hers,  wondering  a  little  at  her  widespread  energy  in  net  cast- 
ing. Was  it  possible  that  once  Lady  Sellingworth  had  been 
like  that,  ceaselessly  on  the  lookout  for  worship,  requiring 
it  as  a  right,  even  from  men  who  were  hairdressers  in  the 
daytime?  As  the  musicians  began  to  play  he  met  her  eyes 
again  and  felt  sure  that  it  could  not  have  been  so.  What- 
ever she  had  done,  whatever  she  had  been,  she  could  never  have 
frequented  the  back  stairs.  That  thought  seemed  a  rather  cruel 
thrust  at  Miss  Van  Tuyn.  But  there  is  a  difference  in  vanities. 
Wonderful  variety  of  nature ! 

When  the  players  had  finished  the  Pastorale  and  "A  Mez- 
zanotte,"  and  had  been  rewarded  by  a  long  look  of  thanks 
from  Miss  Van  Tuyn  which  evidently  drove  them  over  the 
borders  of  admiration  into  the  regions  of  unfulfilled  desire. 
Lady  Sellingworth  said  she  must  go.  And  then  an  unexpected 
thing  happened.  It  appeared  that  Miss  Van  Tuyn  had  asked 
a  certain  famous  critic,  who  though  English  by  birth  was 
more  Parisian  than  most  French  people,  to  call  for  her  at  the 
restaurant  and  take  her  on  to  join  a  party  at  the  Cafe  Royal. 
She,  therefore,  could  not  go  yet,  and  she  begged  Lady  Selling- 
worth  to  stay  on  and  to  finish  up  the  evening  in  the  company 
of  Georgians  at  little  marble  tables.  But  Lady  Sellingworth 
laughingly  jibbed  at  the  Cafe  Royal. 

"I  should  fall  out  of  my  assiette  there!"  she  said. 

"But  no  one  is  ever  surprised  at  the  Cafe  Royal,  dearest. 

It  is  the  one  place  in  London  where Ah !  here  is  Jennings 

come  to  fetch  us !" 

A  very  small  man,  with  a  pointed  black  beard  and  wander- 
ing green  eyes,  wearing  a  Spanish  sombrero  and  a  black  cloak, 
and  carrying  an  ebony  stick  nearly  as  tall  as  himself,  at  this 
moment  slipped  furtively  into  the  room,  and,  without  changing 
his  delicately  plaintive  expression,  came  up  to  Miss  Van  Tuyn 
and  ceremoniously  shook  hands  with  her. 

Lady  Sellingworth  looked  for  a  moment  at  Craven. 


CHAPTER  V  DECEMBER  LOVE  37 

"May  I  escort  you  home?"  he  said.  "At  any  rate,  let  me 
get  you  a  taxi." 

"Lady  Sellingworth,  may  I  introduce  Ambrose  Jennings,'* 
said  Miss  Van  Tuyn  in  a  rather  firm  voice  at  this  moment. 

Lady  SeUingworth  bent  kindly  to  the  little  man  far  down 
below  her.    After  a  word  or  two  she  said : 

"Now  I  must  go." 

"Must  you  really?    Then  Mr.  Craven  will  get  you  a  taxi." 

"If  it's  fine,  I  will  walk.  It  seems  more  suitable  to  walk 
home  after  dining  here." 

"Walk!  Then  let  us  all  walk  together,  and  we'll  persuade 
you  into  the  Cafe  Royal." 

"Dick  Garstin  will  be  there,"  said  Ambrose  Jennings  in  a 
frail  voice,  "Enid  Blunt,  a  Turkish  refugee  from  Smyrna  who 
writes  quite  decent  verse,  Thapoulos,  Penitence  Murray,  who  is 
just  out  of  prison,  and  Smith  the  sculptor,  with  his  mistress, 
a  round-faced  little  Russian  girl.  She's  the  dearest  little  Bol- 
shevik I  know." 

He  looked  plaintively  yet  critically  at  Lady  Sellingworth,  and 
pulled  his  little  black  beard  with  fingers  covered  with  antique 
rings. 

"Dear  little  bloodthirsty  thing!"  he  added  to  Lady  Selling- 
worth.    "You  would  like  her.    I  know  it." 

"I'm  sure  I  should.  There  is  something  so  alluring  about 
Bolshevism  when  it's  safely  tucked  up  at  the  Cafe  Royal.  But 
I  will  only  walk  to  the  door." 

"And  then  Mr.  Craven  will  get  you  a  taxi,"  said  Miss  Van 
Tuyn.     "Shall  we  go?" 

They  fared  forth  into  the  London  night — Craven  last. 

He  realized  that  Miss  Van  Tuyn  had  made  up  her  mind 
to  keep  both  him  and  Jennings  as  her  possessions  of  the  evening, 
and  to  send  Lady  Sellingworth,  if  she  would  go  home  early, 
back  to  Berkeley  Square  without  an  escort.  Her  cult  for  her 
friend,  though  doubtless  genuine,  evidently  weakened  when 
there  was  any  question  of  the  allegiance  of  men.  Craven  made 
up  his  mind  that  he  would  not  leave  Lady  Sellingworth  until 
they  were  at  the  door  of  Number  i8a,  Berkeley  Square. 

In  the  street  he  found  himself  by  the  side  of  Miss  Van 
Tuyn,  behind  Lady  Sellingworth  and  Ambrose  Jennings,  who 
were  really  a  living  caricature  as  they  proceeded  through  the 


88  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  one 

night  towards  Shaftesbury  Avenue.  The  smallness  of  Jen- 
nings, accentuated  by  his  bat-Hke  cloth  cloak,  his  ample  som- 
brero and  fantastically  long  stick,  made  Lady  Sellingworth 
look  like  a  moving  tower  as  she  walked  at  his  side,  like  a 
leaning  tower  when  she  bent  graciously  to  catch  the  murmur 
of  his  persistent  conversation.  And  as  over  the  theatres  in 
letters  of  fire  were  written  the  names  of  the  stars  in  the  London 
firmament — Marie  Lohr,  Moscovitch,  Elsie  Janis — so  over,  all 
over.  Lady  Sellingworth  seemed  to  be  written  for  Craven  to 
read:    "I  am  really  not  a  Bohemian." 

"Do  you  genuinely  wish  Lady  Sellingworth  to  finish  the 
evening  at  the  Cafe  Royal?"  he  asked  of  his  companion. 

"Yes.  They  would  love  her  there.  She  would  bring  a 
new  note." 

"Probably.    But  would  she  love  them?" 

"I  don't  think  you  quite  understand  her,"  said  Miss  Van 
Tuyn. 

"I'm  quite  sure  I  don't.     Still " 

"In  past  years  I  am  certain  she  has  been  to  all  the  odd  cafes 
of  Paris." 

"Perhaps.  But  one  changes.  And  you  yourself  said  there 
were — or  was  it  had  been? — two  Adela  Sellingworths,  and  that 
you  only  knew  one." 

"Yes.  But  perhaps  at  the  Cafe  Royal  I  should  get  to  know 
the  other." 

"May  she  not  be  dead  ?" 

"I  have  a  theory  that  nothing  of  us  really  dies  while  we 
live.  Our  abode  changes.  We  know  that.  But  I  believe  the 
inhabitant  is  permanent.  We  are  what  we  were,  with,  of 
course,  innumerable  additions  brought  to  us  by  the  years.  For 
instance,  I  believe  that  Lady  Sellingworth  now  is  what  she  was, 
to  all  intents  and  purposes,  with  additions  which  naturally  have 
made  great  apparent  changes  in  her.  An  old  moss-covered 
house,  overgrown  with  creepers,  looks  quite  different  from  the 
same  house  when  it  is  new  and  bare.  But  go  inside — the 
rooms  are  the  same,  and  under  the  moss  and  the  creepers  are 
the  same  walls." 

"It  may  be  so.  But  what  a  difference  the  moss  and  the  creep- 
ers make.    Some  may  be  climbing  roses." 


CHAPTER  V  DECEMBER  LOVE  39 

Craven  felt  that  the  shrewd  girlish  eyes  were  looking  at 
him  closely. 

"In  her  case  some  of  them  certainly  are!"  she  said.  "Oh, 
do  look  at  them  turning  the  comer!  If  Cirella  were  here 
he  would  have  a  subject  for  one  of  his  most  perfect  carica- 
tures.   It  is  the  leaning  tower  of  Pisa  with  a  bat." 

The  left  wing  of  Ambrose  Jennings's  cloak  flew  out  as  he 
whirled  into  Regent  Street  by  Lady  Sellingworth's  side. 


CHAPTER  VI 

AT  the  door  of  the  Cafe  Royal  they  stopped,  and  Miss 
Van  Tuyn  laid  a  hand  on  Lady  Sellingworth's  arm. 

"Do  come  in,  dearest.  It  will  really  amuse  you,"  she  said 
urgently.  "And — I'll  be  truthful — I  want  to  show  you  off 
to  the  Georgians  as  my  friend.  I  want  them  to  know  how 
wonderful  an  Edwardian  can  be." 

"Please — please !"  pleaded  Jennings  from  under  his  sombrero. 
"Dick  would  revel  in  you.  You  would  whip  him  into  brilliance. 
I  know  it.    You  admire  his  work,  surely  ?" 

"I  admire  it  very  much." 

"And  he  is  more  wonderful  still  when  he's  drunk.  And 
to-night — I  feel  it — he  will  be  drunk,  I  pledge  myself  that 
Dick  Garstin  will  be  drunk." 

"I'm  sure  it  would  be  a  very  great  privilege  to  see  Mr. 
Garstin  drunk.    But  I  must  go  home.    Good  night,  dear  Beryl." 

"But  the  little  Bolshevik!  You  must  meet  the  httle  Bol- 
shevik!" cried  Jennings. 

Lady  Sellingworth  shook  her  deer-like  head,  smiling. 

"Good  night,  Mr.  Craven." 

"But  he  is  going  to  get  you  a  taxi,"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn. 

"Yes,  and  if  you  will  allow  me  I  am  going  to  leave  you 
at  your  door,"  said  Craven,  with  decision. 

A  line  appeared  in  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  low  forehead,  but  she 
only  said : 

"And  then  you  will  come  back  and  join  us." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Craven. 

He  took  off  his  hat.  Miss  Van  Tuyn  gave  him  a  long  and 
eloquent  look,  which  was  really  not  unlike  a  Leap  Year  pro- 
posal. Then  she  entered  the  cafe  with  Jennings.  Craven 
thought  at  that  moment  that  her  back  looked  unusually  rigid. 

A  taxi  was  passing.  He  held  up  his  hand.  It  stopped.  Lady 
Sellingworth  and  he  got  in,  after  he  had  given  the  address 
to  the  chauffeur. 

JO 


CHAPTER  VI  DECEMBER  LOVE  41 

"What  a  lovely  girl  Beryl  Van  Tuyn  is !"  said  Lady  Selling- 
worth,  as  they  drove  off. 

"She  is — very  lovely." 

"And  she  has  a  lot  of  courage,  moral  courage." 

"Is  it?"  he  could  not  help  saying. 

"Yes.  She  lives  as  she  chooses  to  live.  And  yet  she  isn't 
married." 

"Would  marriage  make  it  all  easier  for  her?" 

"Much,  if  she  married  the  man  who  suited  her." 

"I  wonder  what  sort  of  a  man  that  would  be?" 

"So  does  she,  I  think.  But  she's  a  strange  girl.  I  should 
not  be  surprised  if  she  were  never  to  marry  at  all." 

"Don't  you  think  she  could  fall  in  love?" 

"Yes.  For  I  think  every  living  woman  is  capable  of  that. 
But  she  has  the  sort  of  intellect  which  would  not  be  tricked 
for  very  long  by  the  heart.  Any  weakness  of  hers  would 
soon  be  over,  I  fancy." 

"I  dare  say  you  are  right.  In  fact  I  believe  you  are  gen- 
erally right.  She  told  me  you  were  a  book  of  wisdom.  And  I 
feel  that  it  is  true." 

"Here  is  Berkeley  Square." 

"How  wrong  it  is  of  these  chauffeurs  to  drive  so  fast!  It 
is  almost  as  bad  as  in  Paris.  They  defy  the  law.  I  should  like 
to  have  this  man  up." 

He  got  out.  She  followed  him,  looking  immensely  tall  in 
the  dimness. 

"I  am  not  going  back  to  the  Cafe  Royal,"  he  said. 

"But  it  will  be  amusing.  And  I  think  they  are  certainly 
expecting  you." 

"I  am  not  going  there." 

She  rang.  Instantly  the  door  was  opened  by  the  handsome 
middle-aged  butler. 

"Then  come  in  for  a  little  while,"  she  said  casually. 
"Murgatroyd,  you  might  bring  us  up  some  tea  and  lemon,  or 
will  you  have  whisky  and  soda,  Mr.  Craven?" 

"I  would  much  rather  have  tea  and  lemon,  please,"  he  said. 

A  great  fire  was  burning  in  the  hall.  Again  Craven  felt 
that  he  was  in  a  more  elegant  London  than  the  London  of 
modern  days.  As  he  went  up  the  wide,  calm  staircase,  and 
tasted  the  big  silence  of  the  house,  he  thought  of  the  packed 


42  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  one 

crowd  in  the  Cafe  Royal,  of  the  uproar  there,  of  the  smoke 
wreaths,  of  the  staring  heterogeneous  faces,  of  the  shouting  or 
sullenly  folded  lips,  of  the — perhaps-— tipsy  man  of  genius,  of 
Jennings  with  his  green  eyes,  his  black  beard,  his  tall  ebony 
staff,  of  the  "little  bloodthirsty  thing"  with  the  round  Russian 
face,  of  Miss  Van  Tuyn  in  the  midst  of  it  all,  sitting  by  the 
side  of  Enid  Blunt,  smoking  cirgarettes,  and  searching  the  men's 
faces  for  the  looks  which  were  food  for  her  craving.  And 
he  loved  the  contrast  which  was  given  to  him. 

"Do  go  in  and  sit  by  the  fire,  and  I'll  come  in  a  moment," 
said  the  husky  voice  he  was  learning  to  love.  "I'm  just  going 
to  take  off  my  hat." 

Craven  opened  the  great  mahogany  door  and  went  in. 

The  big  room  was  very  dimly  lighted  by  two  standard  elec- 
tric lamps,  one  near  the  fireplace,  the  other  in  a  distant  corner 
where  a  grand  piano  stood  behind  a  huge  china  bowl  in  which 
a  pink  azalea  was  blooming.  There  was  a  low  armchair  near 
the  fire  by  a  sofa.  He  sat  down  in  it,  and  picked  up  a  book 
which  lay  on  a  table  close  beside  it.  What  did  she  read — this 
book  of  wisdom? 

"Musiciens  d'aujourd'hui,"  by  Romain  Rolland. 

Craven  thought  he  was  disappointed.  There  was  no  revela- 
tion for  him  in  that.  He  held  the  book  on  his  knee,  and 
wondered  what  he  had  expected  to  find,  what  type  of  book. 
What  special  line  of  reading  was  Lady  Sellingworth's  likely 
to  be?  He  could  imagine  her  dreaming  over  "Wisdom  and 
Destiny,"  or  perhaps  over  "The  Book  of  Pity  and  of  Death." 
On  the  other  hand,  it  seemed  quite  natural  to  think  of  her 
smiling  her  mocking  smile  over  a  work  of  delicate,  or  even  of 
bitter,  irony,  such  as  Anatole  France's  story  of  Pilate  at  the 
Baths  of  Bales,  or  study  of  the  Penguins.  He  could  not  think 
that  she  cared  for  sentimental  books,  though  she  might  perhaps 
have  a  taste  for  works  dealing  with  genuine  passion. 

He  heard  the  door  open  gently,  and  got  up.  Lady  Selling- 
worth  came  in.  She  had  not  changed  her  dress,  which  was  a 
simple  day  dress  of  black.  She  had  only  taken  off  her  fur 
and  hat,  and  now  came  towards  him,  still  wearing  white  gloves 
and  holding  a  large  black  fan  in  her  hand. 

"What's  that  you  have  got?"  she  asked.     "Oh— my  book!" 

"Yes.     I  took  it  up  because  I  wondered  what  you  were 


CHAPTER  VI  DECEMBER  LOVE  43 

reading.  I  think  what  people  read  by  preference  tells  one 
something  of  what  they  are.  I  was  interested  to  know  what 
you  read.     Forgive  my  curiosity." 

She  sat  down  by  the  fire,  opened  the  fan,  and  held  it  be- 
tween her  face  and  the  flames. 

"I  read  all  sorts  of  things." 

"Novels?" 

"I  very  seldom  read  a  novel  now.  Here  is  our  tea.  But 
I  know  you  would  rather  have  a  whisky-and-soda." 

"As  a  rule  I  should,  but  not  to-night.  I  want  to  drink  what 
you  are  drinking." 

"And  to  smoke  what  I  am  smoking?"  she  said,  with  a 
faintly  ironic  smile. 

"Yes — please." 

She  held  out  a  box  of  cigarettes.  The  butler  went  out  of 
the  room. 

"I  love  this  house,"  said  Craven  abruptly.  "I  love  its  atmos- 
phere." 

"It  isn't  a  modern  atmosphere,  is  it?" 

"Neither  distinctively  modern,  nor  in  the  least  old-fashioned. 
I  think  the  right  adjective  for  it  would  be  perhaps " 

He  paused  and  sat  silent  for  a  moment. 

"I  hardly  know.  There's  something  remote,  distinguished 
and  yet  very  warm  and  intimate  about  it." 

He  looked  at  her  and  added,  almost  with  hardihood. 

"It's  not  a  cold,  or  even  a  reserved  house." 

"Coldness  and  unnecessary  reserve  are  tiresome — indeed,  I 
might  almost  say  abhorrent — to  me." 

She  had  given  him  his  tea  and  lemon  and  taken  hers, 

"But  not  aloofness?" 

"You  have  travelled?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  you  know  how,  when  travelling,  it  is  easy  to  get 
into  intimacies  with  people  whom  one  doesn't  want  to  be 
intimate  with  at  home." 

"Yes.     I  know  all  about  that." 

"At  my  age  one  has  learnt  to  avoid  not  only  such  intimacies 
but  many  others  less  disagreeable,  but  which  at  moments  might 
give  one  what  I  can  only  call  mental  gooseflesh.  Is  that  aloof- 
ness ?" 


44  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  one 

"I  think  it  would  probably  be  called  so  by  some." 

"By  whom?" 

"Oh,  by  mental  gooseflesh-givers  !" 

She  laughed,  laughed  quite  out  with  a  completeness  which 
had  something  almost  of  youth  in  it. 

"I  wonder,"  he  added  rather  ruefully,  after  the  pause  which 
the  laugh  had  filled  up,  "I  wonder  whether  I  am  one  of 
them?" 

"I  don't  think  you  are." 

"And  Ambrose  Jennings?" 

"That's  a  clever  man !"  was  her  reply. 

And  then  she  changed  the  conversation  to  criticism  in 
general,  and  to  the  type  of  clever  mind  which,  unable  to 
create,  analyses  the  creations  of  others  sensitively. 

"But  I  much  prefer  the  creators,"  she  presently  said. 

"So  do  I.  They  are  like  the  fresh  air  compared  with  the 
air  in  a  carefully  closed  room,"  said  Craven.  "Talking  of 
closed  rooms,  don't  you  think  it  is  strange  the  liking  many 
brilliant  men  and  women  have,  both  creators  and  analysers  of 
creators,  for  the  atmosphere  of  garish  or  sordid  cafes  ?" 

"You  are  thinking  of  the  Cafe  Royal?" 

"Yes.    Do  you  know  it?" 

"Don't  tell  Beryl — but  I  have  never  been  in  it.  Neverthe- 
less, I  know  exactly  what  it  is  like." 

"By  hearsay?" 

"Oh,  no.  In  years  gone  by  I  have  been  into  many  of  the 
cafes   in   Paris." 

"And  did  you  like  them  and  the  life  in  them?" 

"In  those  days  they  often  fascinated  me,  as  no  doubt  the 
Cafe  Royal  and  its  life  fascinates  Beryl  to-day.  The  hectic 
appeals  to  something  in  youth,  when  there  is  often  fever  in 
the  blood.  Strong  lights,  noise,  the  human  pressure  of  crowds, 
the  sight  of  myriads  of  faces,  the  sound  of  many  voices — all 
that  represents  life  to  us  when  we  are  young.  Calm,  empty 
spaces,  single  notes,  room  all  round  us  for  breathing  amply 
and  fully,  a  face  here  or  there — that  doesn't  seem  like  life 
to  us  then.  Beryl  dines  with  me  alone  sometimes.  But  she 
must  finish  up  the  evening  with  a  crowd  if  she  is  near  the 
door  of  the  place  where  the  crowd  is.    And  you  must  not  tell 


CHAPTER  VI  DECEMBER  LOVE  45 

me  you  never  like  the  Cafe  Royal,  for  if  you  do  I  shall  not 
believe  you." 

"I  do  like  it  at  times,"  he  acknowledged.  "But  to-night, 
sitting  here,  the  mere  thought  of  it  is  almost  hateful  to  me. 
It  is  all  vermilion  and  orange  colour,  while  this  .  .  ." 

"Is  drab !" 

"No,  indeed !    Dim  purple,  perhaps,  or  deepest  green." 

"You  couldn't  bear  it  for  long.  You  w^ould  soon  begin  long- 
ing for  vermilion  again." 

"You  seem  to  think  me  very  young.     I  am  twenty-nine." 

"Have  you  ceased  to  love  wildness  already?"  * 

"No,"  he  answered  truthfully.  "But  there  is  something 
here  which  makes  me  feel  as  if  it  were  almost  Aoilgar." 

"No,  no.  It  need  not  be  vulgar.  It  can  be  wonderful — 
beautiful,  even.  It  can  be  like  the  wild  light  which  some- 
times breaks  out  in  the  midst  of  the  blackness  of  a  storm  and 
which  is  wilder  far  than  the  darkest  clouds.  Do  you  ever  read 
William  Watson?" 

"I  have  read  some  of  his  poems." 

"There  is  one  I  think  very  beautiful.  I  wonder  if  you 
know  it.  'Pass,  thou  wild  heart,  wild  heart  of  youth  that 
still  hast  half  a  will  to  stay ' " 

She  stopped  and  held  her  fan  a  little  higher. 

"I  don't  know  it,"  he  said. 

"It  always  makes  me  feel  that  the  man  or  woman  who 
has  never  had  the  wild  heart  has  never  been  truly  and  in- 
tensely human.  But  one  must  know  when  to  stop,  when  to 
let  the  wild  heart  pass  away." 

"But  if  the  heart  wants  to  remain?" 

"Then  you  must  dominate  it.  Nothing  is  more  pitiable, 
nothing  is  more  disgusting,  even,  than  wildness  in  old  age. 
I  have  a  horror  of  that.  And  I  am  certain  that  nothing 
else  can  affect  youth  so  painfully.  Old  wildness — that  must 
give  youth  nausea  of  the  soul." 

She  spoke  with  a  thrill  of  energy  which  penetrated  Craven 
in  a  peculiar  and  fascinating  way.  He  felt  almost  as  if  she 
sent  a  vital  fluid  through  his  veins. 

Suddenly  he  thought  of  the  "old  guard,"  and  he  knew  that 
not  one  of  the  truly  marvellous  women  who  belonged  to  it 


46  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  one 

could  hold  him  or  charm  him  as  this  white-haired  woman, 
with  the  frankly  old  face,  could  and  did. 

"After  all,"  he  thought,  "it  isn't  the  envelope  that  matters; 
it  is  the  letter  inside." 

Deeply  he  believed  that  just  then.  He  was,  indeed,  under 
a  sort  of  spell  for  the  moment.  Could  the  spell  be  lasting? 
He  looked  at  Lady  Sellingworth's  eyes  in  the  lamplight  and 
firelight,  and,  despite  a  certain  not  forgotten  moment  connected 
with  the  Hyde  Park  Hotel,  he  believed  that  it  could.  And 
Lady  Sellingworth  looked  at  him  and  knew  that  it  could  not. 
About  such  a  matter  she  had  no  illusions. 

And  yet  for  years  she  had  lived  a  life  cloudy  with  illusions. 
What  had  led  her  out  from  those  clouds?  Braybrooke  had 
hinted  to  Craven  that  possibly  Seymour  Portman  knew  the 
secret  of  Lady  Sellingworth's  abrupt  desertion  of  the  "old 
guard"  and  plunge  into  old  age.  But  even  he  did  not  know 
it.  For  he  loved  her  in  a  still,  determined,  undeviating  way. 
And  no  woman  would  care  to  tell  such  a  secret  to  a  man 
who  loved  her  and  who  was  almost  certain,  barring  the  ex- 
plosion of  a  moral  bombshell,  and  perhaps  even  then,  to  go 
on  loving  her. 

No  one  knew  why  Lady  Sellingworth  had  abruptly  and 
finally  emerged  from  the  world  of  illusions  in  which  she  had 
lived.  But  possibly  a  member  of  the  underworld,  a  light- 
fingered  gentleman  of  brazen  assurance,  had  long  ago  guessed 
the  reason  for  her  sudden  departure  from  the  regiment  of 
which  she  had  been  a  conspicuous  member;  possibly  he  had 
guessed,  or  surmised,  why  she  had  sent  in  her  papers.  But 
even  he  could  scarcely  be  certain. 

The  truth  of  the  matter  was  this. 


PART  TWO 


CHAPTER  I 

LADY  SELLINGWORTH  belonged  to  a  great  English 
family,  and  had  been  brought  up  in  healthy  splendour, 
saved  from  the  canker  of  too  much  luxury  by  the  aristocratic 
love  of  sport  which  is  a  tradition  in  such  English  families  as 
hers.  As  a  girl  she  had  been  what  a  certain  sporting  earl 
described  as  "a  leggy  beauty."  Even  then  she  had  shown  a 
decided  inclination  to  run  wild  and  had  seldom  checked  the 
inclination.  Unusually  tall  and  athletic,  rather  boyish  in  ap- 
pearance, and  of  the  thin,  greyhound  type,  she  had  excelled 
in  games  and  had  held  her  own  in  sports.  She  had  shot 
in  an  era  when  comparatively  few  women  shot,  and  in  the 
hunting-field  she  had  shown  a  reckless  courage  which  had 
fascinated  the  hard-riding  men  who  frequented  her  father's 
house.  As  she  grew  older  her  beauty  had  rapidly  developed, 
and  with  it  an  insatiable  love  of  admiration.  Early  she  had 
realized  that  she  was  going  to  be  a  beauty,  and  had  privately 
thanked  the  gods  for  her  luck.  She  could  scarcely  have  borne 
not  to  be  a  beauty ;  but,  mercifully,  it  was  all  right.  Woman's 
greatest  gift  was  to  be  hers.  When  she  looked  into  the  glass 
and  knew  that,  when  she  looked  into  men's  eyes  and  knew  it 
even  more  definitely,  she  felt  merciless  and  eternal.  In  the 
dawn  no  end  was  in  sight ;  in  the  dawn  no  end  seemed  possible. 

From  the  age  of  sixteen  onwards  hers  was  the  intimate  joy, 
certainly  one  of  the  greatest,  if  not  the  greatest  of  all  the 
joys  of  women,  of  knowing  that  all  men  looked  at  her  with 
pleasure,  that  many  men  looked  at  her  with  longing,  that  she 
was  incessantly  desired. 

From  the  time  when  she  was  sixteen  she  lived  perpetually 
in  that  atmosphere  which  men  throw  round  a  daring  and  beau- 
tiful  woman   without   even  conscious   intention,  creating   it 

47 


48  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

irresistibly  merely  by  their  natural  desire.  And  that  atmos- 
phere was  the  breath  of  life  to  her.  Soon  she  could  not  im- 
agine finding  any  real  value  in  life  without  it.  She  often 
considered  plain  girls,  dull  girls,  middle-aged  women  who  had 
never  had  any  beauty,  any  saving  grace  but  that  of  freshness, 
and  wondered  how  they  managed  to  get  along  at  all.  What 
was  the  use  of  life  to  them?  Nobody  bothered  about  them, 
except,  perhaps,  a  few  relations,  or  what  are  called  "old  friends" 
— that  is,  people  who,  having  always  been  accustomed  to  you, 
put  up  with  you  comfortably,  and  wear  their  carpet  slippers 
in  your  presence  without  troubling  whether  you  like  slippers 
or  would  prefer  them  in  high-heeled  shoes. 

As  to  old  women,  those  from  whom  almost  the  last  vestiges 
of  what  they  once  had  been  physically  had  fallen  away,  she  was 
always  charming  to  them ;  but  she  always  wondered  why  they 
still  seemed  to  cling  on  to  life.  They  were  done  with.  It 
was  long  ago  all  over  for  them.  They  did  not  matter  any  more, 
even  if  once  they  had  mattered.  Why  did  they  still  keep  a 
hold  on  life  with  their  skinny  hands?  Was  it  from  fear  of 
death,  or  what?  Once  she  expressed  her  wonder  about  this 
to  a  man. 

"Of  course,"  she  said.  "I  know  they  can't  go  just  because 
they  want  to.    But  why  do  they  want  to  stay?" 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "I  think  lots  of  old  ladies  enjoy  themselves 
immensely  in  their  own  way." 

"Well,  I  can't  understand  it !"  she  said. 

And  she  spoke  the  truth. 

She  flirted,  of  course.  Her  youthful  years  were  complicated 
by  a  maze  of  flirtations,  through  which  she  wandered  with  ap- 
parently the  greatest  assurance,  gaining  knowledge  of  men. 

Finally  she  married.  She  made  what  is  called  "a  great 
match,"  the  sort  of  match  in  every  way  suitable  to  such  an 
aristocratic,  beautiful  and  daring  girl. 

Then  began  her  real  reign. 

Although  such  a  keen  sportswoman,  she  was  also  a  woman 
who  had  a  good  brain,  a  quick  understanding,  and  a  genuine 
love  of  the  intellectual  and  artistic  side  of  life,  for  its  own  sake, 
not  for  any  reason  of  fashion.  She  was  of  the  type  that  rather 
makes  fashions  than  follows  them.  As  a  married  woman  she 
was  not  only  Diana  in  the  open  country,  she  was  Egeria  else- 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  49 

where.  She  liked  and  she  wanted  all  types  of  men ;  the  hard- 
bitten, keen-eyed,  lean-flanked  men  who  could  give  her  a  lead  or 
take  a  lead  from  her  over  difficult  country,  and  the  softer  breed 
of  men,  whose  more  rounded  bodies  were  informed  by  sharp 
spirits,  who,  many  of  them,  could  not  have  sat  a  horse  over  the 
easiest  fence,  or  perhaps  even  have  brought  down  a  stag  at 
twenty  paces,  but  who  could  dominate  thousands  from  their 
desks,  or  from  the  stages  of  opera  houses,  or  from  adjustable 
seats  in  front  of  pianos,  or  from  studios  hung  with  embroideries 
and  strewn  with  carpets  of  the  East. 

These  knew  how  to  admire  and  long  for  a  beautiful  woman 
quite  as  well  as  the  men  of  the  moors  and  the  hunting  field,  and 
they  were  often  more  subtle  in  their  ways  of  showing  their 
feelings. 

Lady  Sellingworth  had  horses  named  after  her  and  books 
dedicated  to  her.  She  moved  in  all  sets  which  were  penetrated 
by  the  violent  zest  for  the  life  of  the  big  world,  and  in  all  sets 
she  more  than  held  her  own.  She  was  as  much  at  home  in 
Chelsea  as  she  was  at  Newmarket.  Her  beautifully  disguised 
search  for  admiration  extended  far  and  wide,  and  she  found 
what  she  wanted  sometimes  in  unexpected  places,  in  sombre 
Oxford  libraries,  in  time-worn  deaneries,  in  East-End  settle- 
ments, through  which  she  flashed  now  and  then  like  a  bird  of 
Paradise,  darting  across  the  murk  of  a  strange  black  country 
on  its  way  to  golden  regions,  as  well  as  in  Mayfair,  in  the  Shires, 
in  foreign  capitals,  and  on  the  moors  of  Scotland. 

Her  husband  was  no  obstacle  in  her  way.  She  completely 
dominated  him,  even  though  she  gave  him  no  child.  He  knew 
she  was,  as  he  expressed  it,  "worth  fifty"  of  him.  Emphatically 
he  was  the  husband  of  his  wife,  and  five  years  after  their 
marriage  he  died  still  adoring  her. 

She  was  sorry ;  she  was  even  very  sorry.  And  she  withdrew 
from  the  great  world  in  which  she  had  been  a  moving  spirit  now 
for  over  ten  years  for  the  period  of  mourning,  a  year.  But  she 
was  not  overwhelmed  by  sorrow.  It  is  so  very  difficult  for  the 
woman  who  lives  by,  and  for,  her  beauty  and  her  charm  for  men 
to  be  overwhelmed.  One  man  has  gone  and  she  mourns  him ; 
but  there  are  so  many  men  left,  all  of  them  with  eyes  in  which 
lamps  may  be  set  and  with  hearts  to  be  broken. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  she  became  very  familiar  with  Paris. 


50  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

She  wanted  to  be  away  from  London,  so  she  took  an  apart- 
ment in  Paris,  and  began  to  live  there  very  quietly.  Friends, 
of  course,  came  to  see  her,  and  she  began  to  study  Paris  thor- 
oughly, not  the  gay,  social  Paris,  but  a  very  interesting  Paris. 
Presently  her  freedom  from  the  ordinary  social  ties  began  to 
amuse  her.  She  had  now  so  much  time  for  all  sorts  of  things 
which  women  very  much  in  society  miss  more  often  than  not. 
Never  going  to  parties,  she  was  able  to  go  elsewhere.  She  went 
elsewhere.  Always  there  had  dwelt  caged  in  her  a  certain  wild- 
ness  which  did  not  come  from  her  English  blood.  There  was  a 
foreign  strain  in  her  from  the  borders  of  Asia  mingled  with  a 
strong  Celtic  strain.  This  wildness  which  in  her  girlhood  she 
had  let  loose  happily  in  games  and  sports,  in  violent  flirtations, 
and  in  much  daring  skating  over  thin  ice,  which  in  her  married 
life  had  spent  itself  in  the  whirl  of  society,  and  in  the  energies 
necessary  to  the  attainment  of  an  unchallenged  position  at  the 
top  of  things,  in  her  widowhood  began  to  seek  an  outlet  in 
Bohemia. 

Paris  can  be  a  very  kind  or  a  very  cruel  city,  in  its  gaiety 
hiding  velvet  or  the  claws  of  a  tiger.  To  Lady  Sellingworth — 
then  Lady  Manham — it  was  kind.  It  gave  her  its  velvet.  She 
knew  a  fresh  type  of  life  there,  with  much  for  the  intellect,  with 
not  a  little  for  the  senses,  even  with  something  for  the  heart. 
It  was  there  that  she  visited  out-of-the-way  cafes,  where  clever 
men  met  and  talked  over  every  subject  on  earth.  A  place  like 
the  Cafe  Royal  in  London  had  no  attraction  for  the  Lady  Sel- 
lingworth over  sixty.  That  sort  of  thing,  raised  to  the  nth 
degree,  had  been  familiar  to  her  years  and  years  ago,  before 
Beryl  Van  Tuyn  and  Enid  Blunt  had  been  in  their  cradles. 

And  the  freedom  of  widowhood,  with  no  tie  at  all,  had  become 
gradually  very  dear  to  her.  She  had  felt  free  enough  in  her 
marriage.  But  this  manner  of  life  had  more  breathing  space 
in  it.  There  is  no  doubt  that  in  that  Paris  year,  especially  in  the 
second  half  of  it,  she  allowed  the  wild  strain  in  her  to  play  as  it 
had  never  played  before,  like  a  reckless  child  out  of  sight  of 
parents  and  all  relations. 

When  the  mourning  was  over  and  she  returned  to  London 
she  was  a  woman  who  had  progressed,  but  whether  upon  an 
upward  or  a  downward  path  who  shall  decide?  She  had  cer- 
tainly become  more  fascinating.    Her  beauty  was  at  its  height. 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  61 

The  year  in  Paris,  lived  almost  wholly  among  clever  and  very 
unprejudiced  French  people,  had  given  her  a  peculiar  polish — 
one  Frenchman  who  knew  English  slang  called  it  "a  shine" — 
which  made  her  stand  out  among  her  English  contemporaries. 
Many  of  them  when  girls  had  received  a  "finish"  in  Paris. 
But  girls  cannot  go  about  as  she  had  gone  about.  They  had 
learnt  French;  she  had  learnt  Paris.  From  that  time  onward 
she  was  probably  the  most  truly  cosmopolitan  of  all  the  aristo- 
cratic Englishwomen  of  her  day.  Distinguished  foreigners  who 
visited  London  generally  paid  their  first  private  call  on  her. 
Her  house  was  European  rather  than  English.  She  kept,  too, 
her  apartment  in  Paris,  and  lived  there  almost  as  much  as  she 
lived  in  London.  And,  perhaps,  her  secret  wildness  was  more 
at  home  there. 

Scandal,  of  course,  could  not  leave  her  untouched.  But  her 
position  in  society  was  never  challenged.  People  said  dreadful 
things  about  her,  but  everyone  who  did  not  know  her  wanted  to 
know  her,  and  no  one  who  knew  her  wished  not  to  know  her. 
She  "stood  out"  from  all  the  other  women  in  England  of  her 
day,  not  merely  because  of  her  beauty — she  was  not  more  beau- 
tiful than  several  of  her  contemporaries — but  because  of  her 
gay  distinction,  a  daring  which  was  never,  which  could  not  be, 
ill  bred,  her  extraordinary  lack  of  all  aflfectation,  and  a  peculiar 
and  delightful  bonhomie  which  made  her  at  home  with  everyone 
and  everyone  at  home  with  her.  Servants  and  dependents  loved 
her.  Everyone  about  her  was  fond  of  her.  And  yet  she  was 
certainly  selfish.  Invariably  almost  she  was  kind  to  people,  but 
herself  came  first  with  her.  She  made  few  sacrifices,  and  many 
sacrificed  themselves  to  her.  There  was  seldom  a  moment  when 
incense  was  not  rising  up  before  her  altar,  and  the  burnt  oflfer- 
ings  to  her  were  innumerable. 

And  all  through  these  years  she  was  sinking  more  deeply  into 
slavery,  while  she  was  ruling  others.  Her  slavery  was  to  her- 
self. She  was  the  captive  of  her  own  vanity.  Her  love  of  ad- 
miration had  developed  into  an  insatiable  passion.  She  was 
ceaselessly  in  her  tower  spying  out  for  fresh  lovers.  From  afar 
off  she  perceived  them,  and  when  they  drew  near  to  her  castle 
she  stopped  them  on  their  way.  She  did  not  love  them  and  cast 
them  to  death  like  Tamara  of  the  Caucasus.  No;  but  she  re- 
quired of  them  the  pause  on  their  travels,  which  was  a  tribute 


52  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

to  her  power.     No  one  must  pass  her  by  as  if  she  were  an 
ordinary  woman. 

Probably  there  is  no  weed  in  all  the  human  garden  which 
grows  so  fast  as  vanity.  Lady  Sellingworth's  vanity  grew  and 
grew  with  the  years  until  it  almost  devoured  her.  It  became 
an  idee  fixe  in  her.  A  few  people  no  doubt  knew  this — a  few 
women.  But  she  was  saved  from  all  vulgarity  of  vanity  by  an 
inherent  distinction,  not  only  of  manner  but  of  something  more 
intimate,  which  never  quite  abandoned  her,  which  her  vanity 
was  never  able  to  destroy.  Although  her  vanity  was  colossal, 
she  usually  either  concealed  it,  or  if  she  showed  it  showed  it 
subtly.  She  was  not  of  the  type  which  cannot  pass  a  mirror 
in  a  restaurant  without  staring  into  it.  She  only  looked  into 
mirrors  in  private.  Nor  was  she  one  of  those  women  who  pow- 
der their  faces  and  rouge  their  lips  before  men  in  public  places. 
It  was  impossible  for  her  to  be  blatant.  Nevertheless,  her  moral 
disease  led  her  gradually  to  fall  from  her  own  secret  standard 
of  what  a  woman  of  her  world  should  be.  Craven  had  once  said 
to  himself  that  Lady  Sellingworth  could  never  seek  the  back- 
stairs. He  was  not  wholly  right  in  this  surmise  about  her. 
There  was  a  time  in  her  life — the  time  when  she  was,  or  was 
called,  a  professional  beauty — when  she  could  scarcely  see  a 
man's  face  without  watching  it  for  admiration.  Although  she 
preserved  her  delightfully  unselfconscious  manner  she  was  al- 
most ceaselessly  conscious  of  self.  Her  own  beauty  was  the  idol 
which  she  worshipped  and  which  she  presented  to  the  world 
expectant  of  the  worship  of  others.  There  have  been  many 
women  like  her,  but  few  who  have  been  so  clever  in  hiding  their 
disease.  But  always  seated  in  her  brain  there  was  an  imp  who 
understood,  was  contemptuous  and  mocked,  an  imp  who 
knew  what  was  coming  to  her,  what  comes  to  all  the  daughters 
of  men  who  outlive  youth  and  its  shadowy  triumphs.  Her  brain 
was  ironic,  while  her  temperament  was  passionate,  and  greedy 
in  its  pursuit  of  the  food  it  clamoured  for;  her  brain  watched 
the  unceasing  chase  with  almost  a  bitterness  of  sarcasm,  merg- 
ing sometimes  into  a  bitterness  of  pity.  In  some  women  there 
seems  at  times  to  be  a  dual  personality,  a  woman  of  the  blood 
at  odds  with  a  woman  of  the  grey  matter.  It  was  so  in  Lady 
Sellingworth's  case,  but  for  a  long  time  the  former  woman 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  63 

dominated  the  latter,  whose  empire  was  to  come  later  with  white 
hair  and  a  ravaged  face. 

At  the  age  of  thirty-five,  after  some  years  of  brilliant  and 
even  of  despotic  widowhood,  she  married  again — Lord  Selling- 
worth. 

He  was  twenty-five  years  older  than  she  was,  ruggedly  hand- 
some, huge,  lean,  self-possessed,  very  clever,  very  worldly, 
and  that  unusual  phenomenon,  a  genuine  atheist.  There  was 
no  doubt  that  he  had  a  keen  passion  for  her,  one  of  those 
passions  which  sometimes  flare  up  in  a  man  of  a  strong  and 
impetuous  nature,  who  has  lived  too  much,  who  is  use,  haunted 
at  times  by  physical  weariness,  yet  still  fiercely  determined  to 
keep  a  tight  grip  on  life  and  life's  few  real  pleasures,  the 
greatest  of  which  is  perhaps  the  indulgence  of  love. 

Like  her  first  marriage  this  marriage  was  apparently  a  suc- 
cess. Lord  Sellingworth's  cleverness  fascinated  his  wife's  brain, 
and  led  her  to  value  the  pursuits  of  the  intellect  more  than  she 
had  ever  done  before.  She  was  proud  of  his  knowledge  and 
wit,  proud  of  being  loved  by  a  man  of  obvious  value.  After 
this  marriage  her  house  became  more  than  ever  the  resort 
of  the  brilliant  men  of  the  day.  But  though  Lord  Selling- 
worth  undoubtedly,  improved  his  wife's  mental  capacities, 
enlarged  the  horizon  of  her  mind,  and  gave  her  new  interests, 
without  specially  intending  it  he  injured  her  soul.  For  he 
increased  her  worldliness  and  infected  her  with  his  atheism. 
She  had  always  been  devoted  to  the  world.  He  continually 
suggested  to  her  that  there  was  nothing  else,  nothing  be- 
yond. All  sense  of  mysticism  had  been  left  out  of  his  nature. 
What  he  called  "priestcraft"  was  abhorrent  to  him.  The  various 
religions  seemed  to  him  merely  different  forms  of  superstition, 
the  assertions  of  their  leaders  only  varying  forms  of  humbug. 
He  was  greedy  in  searching  for  food  to  content  the  passions 
of  the  body,  and  was  restless  in  pursuit  of  nutriment  for  the 
mind.    But  not  believing  in  the  soul  he  took  no  trouble  about  it. 

Lady  Sellingworth  had  this  man  at  her  feet.  Nevertheless, 
in  a  certain  way  he  dominated  her.  In  hard  mental  power 
he  was  much  her  superior,  and  her  mind  became  gradually 
subservient  to  his  in  many  subtle  ways.  It  was  in  his  day 
that  she  developed  that  noticeable  and  almost  reckless  egoism 
which  is  summed  up  by  the  laconic  saying,   "after  me  the 


64  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

deluge."  For  Lord  Sellingworth's  atheism  was  not  of  the 
type  which  leads  to  active  humanitarianism,  but  of  the  op- 
posite type  which  leads  to  an  exquisite  selfishness.  And  he 
led  his  wife  with  him.  He  taught  her  the  whole  art  of  self- 
culture,  and  with  it  the  whole  art  of  self -worship,  subtly  ex- 
tending to  her  mind  that  which  for  long  had  been  concerned 
mainly  with  the  body.  They  were  two  of  the  most  selfish  and 
two  of  the  most  charming  people  in  London.  For  they  were 
both  thorough  bred  and  naturally  kind-hearted,  and  so  there 
were  always  showers  of  crumbs  falling  from  their  well- 
spread  table  for  the  benefit  of  those  about  them.  Their  friends 
had  a  magnificent  time  with  them  and  so  did  their  servants. 
They  liked  others  to  be  pleased  with  them  and  satisfied  be- 
cause of  them.  For  they  must  live  in  a  warm  atmosphere. 
And  nothing  makes  the  atmosphere  so  cold  about  a  man  or 
woman  as  the  egoism  which  shows  itself  in  miserliness,  or  in 
the  unwillingness  that  others  should  have  a  good  time. 

When  Lady  Sellingworth  was  thirty-nine  Lord  Sellingworth 
died  abruptly.  The  doctors  said  that  his  heart  was  worn  out; 
others  said  something  dififerent,  something  less  kind. 

For  the  second  time  Lady  Sellingworth  was  a  widow;  for 
the  second  time  she  spent  the  period  of  mourning  in  Paris. 
And  when  it  was  over  she  went  for  a  tour  round  the  world 
with  a  small  party  of  friends ;  Sir  Guy  Letchworth  and  his 
plain,  but  gay  and  clever  wife,  and  Roger  Brand,  a  millionaire 
and  a  famous  Edwardian. 

Brand  was  a  bachelor,  and  had  long  been  a  devoted  ad- 
herent of  Lady  Sellingworth,'s,  and  people,  of  course,  said  that 
he  was  going  to  marry  her.  But  they  eventually  came  back 
from  their  long  tour  comfortably  disengaged.  Brand  went 
back  to  his  enormous  house  in  Park  Lane,  and  Lady  Selling- 
worth  settled  down  in  number  i8a  Berkeley  Square. 

She  was  now  forty-one.  She  had  arrived  at  a  very  diffi- 
cult period  in  the  life  of  a  beauty.  The  freshness  and  bloom 
of  youth  had  inevitably  left  her.  The  adjectives  applied  to 
her  were  changing.  The  word  "lovely"  was  dropped.  Its 
place  was  taken  by  such  epithets  as  "handsome,"  "splendid 
looking,"  "brilliant,"  "striking,"  "alluring."  People  spoke  of 
Lady  Sellingworth's  "good  days" ;  and  said  of  her,  "Isn't  she 
astonishing?"     The  word  "zenith"  was  occasionally  used  in 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  66 

reference  to  her.  A  verb  which  began  to  be  mixed  up  with 
her  a  good  deal  was  the  verb  "to  last."  It  was  said  of  her 
that  she  "lasted"  wonderfully.  Women  put  the  question,  "Isn't 
it  miraculous  how  Adela  SelHngworth  lasts?" 

All  this  might,  perhaps,  be  called  complimentary.  But  women 
are  not  as  a  rule  specially  fond  of  such  compliments.  When 
kind  friends  speak  of  a  woman's  "good  days"  there  is  an 
implication  that  some  of  her  days  are  bad.  Lady  SelHngworth 
knew  as  well  as  any  woman  which  compliments  are  left-handed 
and  which  are  not.  On  one  occasion  soon  after  she  returned 
to  London  from  her  tour  round  the  world  a  woman  friend  said 
to  her: 

"Adela,  you  have  never  looked  better  than  you  do  now.  Do 
you  know  what  you  remind  me  of  ?" 

The  woman  was  an  American.  Lady  SelHngworth  replied 
carelessly : 

"I  haven't  the  slightest  idea." 

"You  remind  me  of  our  wonderful  Indian  summers  that 
come  in  October.     How  do  you  manage  it?" 

That  come  in  October ! 

These  words  struck  a  chill  through  Lady  SelHngworth.  Sud- 
denly she  felt  the  autumn  in  her.  She  had  been  in  America; 
she  had  known  the  glory  of  its  Indian  summer;  she  had 
also  known  that  Indian  summer's  startling  sudden  collapse. 
Winter  comes  swiftly  after  those  almost  unnaturally  golden 
days.  And  what  is  there  left  in  winter  for  a  woman  who 
has  lived  for  her  beauty  since  she  was  sixteen  years  old  ?  The 
freedom  of  a  second  widowhood  would  be  only  chill  loneliness 
in  winter.  She  saw  herself  like  a  figure  in  the  distance,  sitting 
over  a  fire  alone.  But  little  warmth  would  come  from  that 
fire.  The  warmth  that  was  necessary  to  her  came  from  quite 
other  sources  than  coal  or  wood  kindled  and  giving  out  flames. 

Her  vanity  shuddered.  She  realized  strongly,  perhaps,  for 
the  first  time,  that  people  were  just  beginning  to  think  of  her 
as  a  woman  inevitably  on  the  wane.  She  looked  into  her 
mirror,  stared  into  it,  and  tried  to  consider  herself  impartially. 
She  was  certainly  very  good-looking.  Her  tall  figure  had  never 
been  made  ugly  by  fatness.  She  was  not  the  victim  of  what 
is  sometimes  called  "the  elderly  spread."  But  although  she 
was  slim,  considering  her  great  height,  she  thought  that  she 


56  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

discerned  signs  of  a  thickening  tendency.  She  must  take  that 
in  time.  Her  figure  must  not  be  allowed  to  degenerate.  And 
her  face? 

She  was  so  accustomed  to  her  face,  and  so  accustomed  to 
its  being  a  beautiful  face,  that  it  was  difficult  to  her  to  regard 
it  with  cold  impartiality.  But  she  tried  to;  tried  to  look  at  it 
as  she  might  have  looked  at  the  face  of  another  woman,  of, 
say,  a  rival  beauty. 

What  age  did  that  face  seem  to  be?  If  she  had  seen  it 
passing  by  in  the  street  what  age  would  she  have  guessed 
its  owner  to  be?  Something  in  the  thirties;  but  perhaps  in 
the  late  thirties?  She  wasn't  quite  certain  about  it.  Really 
it  is  so  difficult  to  look  at  yourself  quite  impartially.  And 
she  did  not  wish  to  fall  into  exaggeration,  to  be  hypercritical. 
She  wished  to  be  strictly  reasonable,  to  see  herself  exactly  as 
she  was.  The  eyes  were  brilliant,  but  did  they  look  young 
eyes? 

No,  they  didn't.  And  yet  they  were  full  of  light.  There  was 
nothing  faded  about  them.  But  somehow  at  that  moment  they 
looked  terribly  experienced.  With  a  conscious  effort  she  tried 
to  change  their  expression,  to  make  them  look  less  full  of 
knowledge.  But  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  failed  utterly. 
No,  they  were  not  young  eyes;  they  never  could  be  young 
eyes.  The  long  accustomed  woman  of  the  world  was  mirrored 
in  them  with  her  many  experiences.  They  were  beautiful 
in  their  way,  but  their  way  had  nothing  to  do  with  youth. 
And  near  the  eyes,  very  near,  there  were  definite  traces  of 
maturity.  A  few,  as  yet  very  faint,  lines  showed;  and  there 
were  shadows ;  and  there  was — she  could  only  call  it  to  herself 
"a  slightly  hollow  look,"  which  she  had  never  observed  in  any 
girl,  or,  so  far  as  she  remembered,  in  any  young  woman. 

She  gazed  at  her  mouth  and  then  at  her  throat.  Both  showed 
signs  of  age;  the  throat  especially,  she  thought.  The  lips  were 
fine,  finely  curved,  voluptuous.  But  they  were  somehow  not 
fresh  lips.  In  some  mysterious  way,  which  really  she  could 
not  define,  life  had  marked  them  as  mature.  There  were  a 
couple  of  little  furrows  in  the  throat  and  there  was  also  a  slightly 
"drawn"  look  on  each  side  just  below  the  line  of  the  jaw. 
By  the  temples  also,  close  to  the  hair,  there  was  something 
which  did  not  look  young. 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  67 

Lady  SelHngworth  felt  very  cold.  At  that  moment  she 
probably  exaggerated  in  her  mind  the  effect  of  her  appearance. 
She  plunged  down  into  pessimism  about  herself.  A  sort  of 
desperation  came  upon  her.  Underneath  all  her  conquering 
charm,  hidden  away  like  a  trembling  bird  under  depths  of 
green  leaves,  there  was  a  secret  diffidence  of  which  she  had 
occasionally  been  conscious  during  her  life.  It  had  no  doubt 
been  born  with  her,  had  lived  in  her  as  long  as  she  had  lived. 
Very  few  people  knew  of  its  existence.  But  she  knew,  had 
known  of  it  as  long  as  she  remembered.  Now  that  diffidence 
seemed  to  hold  her  with  talons,  to  press  its  beak  into  her 
heart. 

She  felt  that  she  could  not  face  the  world  with  any  assurance 
if  she  lost  her  beauty.  She  had  charm,  cleverness,  rank, 
position,  money.  She  knew  all  her  advantages.  But  at  that 
moment  she  seemed  to  be  confronting  penury.  And  as  she 
continued  to  look  into  the  mirror  ugliness  seemed  to  grow 
in  the  woman  she  saw  like  a  spreading  disease  till  she  felt  that 
she  would  be  frightened  to  show  herself  to  anyone,  and  wished 
she  could  hide  from  everyone  who  knew  her. 

That  absurdly  morbid  fit  passed,  of  course.  It  could  not 
continue,  except  in  a  woman  who  was  physically  ill,  and  Lady 
SelHngworth  was  quite  well.  But  it  left  its  mark  in  her  mind. 
From  that  day  she  began  to  take  intense  trouble  with  her- 
self. Hitherto  she  had  been  inclined  to  trust  her  own  beauty. 
She  had  relied  on  it  almost  instinctively.  And  that  strange, 
hidden  diffidence,  when  it  had  manifested  itself,  had  mani- 
fested itself  in  connexion  with  social  things,  the  success  of  a 
dinner,  or  with  things  of  the  mind,  the  success  or  non-success 
of  a  conversation  with  a  clever  man.  She  had  never  spoken 
of  it  to  anyone,  for  she  had  always  been  more  or  less  ashamed 
of  it,  and  had  brought  silence  to  her  aid  in  the  endeavour 
to  stamp  it  out  lest  it  should  impair  her  power  over  others. 
But  now  it  was  quickened  within  her.  It  grew,  and  in  its 
growth  tortured  her. 

"How  do  you  manage  it?" 

That  not  very  kind  question  of  the  friend  who  had  com- 
pared her  to  an  Indian  summer  remained  with  Lady  Selling- 
worth.  Since  she  had  considered  herself  in  the  mirror  she 
had  realized  that  she  had  attained  that  critical  period  in  a 


58  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

beauty's  life  when  she  must  begin  incessantly  to  manage  to 
continue  a  beauty.  Hitherto,  beyond  always  dressing  perfectly 
and  taking  care  to  be  properly  "turned  out,"  she  had  done  less 
to  herself  than  many  women  habitually  do.  Now  she  swung 
to  the  opposite  extreme.  There  is  no  need  to  describe  what 
she  did.  She  did,  or  had  done  to  her,  all  that  she  considered 
necessary,  and  she  considered  that  a  very  great  deal  was  nec- 
essary. 

A  certain  Greek,  who  was  a  marvellous  expert  in  his  line, 
helped  her  at  a  very  high  figure.  And  she  helped  herself 
by  much  rigid  abstinence,  by  denying  natural  appetites,  by 
patient  physical  discipline.  Her  fight  against  the  years  was 
tremendous,  and  was  conducted  with  extraordinary  courage. 

But  nevertheless  it  seemed  to  her  that  a  curse  was  put 
upon  her ;  in  that  she  was  surely  one  of  those  women  who,  once 
they  take  the  first  step  upon  the  downward  slope,  are  com- 
pelled to  go  forward  with  a  damnable  rapidity. 

The  more  she  "managed  it"  the  more  there  seemed  to  be 
to  manage.  From  the  time  when  she  frankly  gave  herself  into 
the  clutches  of  artificiality  the  natural  physical  merit  of  her 
seemed  to  her  to  deteriorate  at  a  speed  which  was  headlong. 

A  hideous  leap  in  the  downward  course  took  place  presently. 
She  began  to  dye  her  hair.  She  was  not  such  a  fool  as 
to  change  its  natural  colour.  She  merely  concealed  the  fact 
that  white  hairs  were  beginning  to  grow  on  her  head  at  an 
age  when  many  simple  people,  who  don't  care  particularly  what 
they  look  like — sensible  clergymen's  wives  in  the  provinces,  and 
others  unknown  to  fashion — remain  as  brown  as  a  berry,  or  as 
pleasantly  auburn  as  the  rind  of  a  chestnut. 

The  knowledge  of  those  hidden  white  hairs  haunted  her. 
She  felt  horribly  ashamed  of  them.  She  hated  them  with  an 
intense,  and  almost  despairing,  hatred.  For  they  stamped  the 
terrific  difference  between  her  body  and  her  nature. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  in  her  nature  she  retained  all  the  pas- 
sions of  youth.  This  was  not  strictly  true,  for  no  woman 
over  forty  has  precisely  the  same  passions  as  an  ardent  girl, 
however  ardent  she  may  be.  But  the  "wild  heart,"  spoken  of 
by  Lady  Sellingworth  to  Craven,  still  beat  in  her  breast,  and 
the  vanity  of  the  girl,  enormously  increased  by  the  passage 
of  the  years,  still  lived  intensely  in  the  middle-aged  woman. 


CHAPTER  1  DECEMBER  LOVE  59 

It  was  perhaps  this  natural  wildness  combined  with  her  vanity 
which  tortured  Lady  SelHngworth  most  at  this  period  of  her 
life.  She  still  desired  happiness  and  pleasure  greedily,  indeed 
with  almost  unnatural  greediness ;  she  still  felt  that  life  robbed 
of  the  admiration  and  the  longing  of  men  would  not  be  worth 
living. 

Beryl  Van  Tuyn  had  spoken  of  a  photograph  of  Lady  Selling- 
worth  taken  when  she  was  about  forty-nine,  and  had  said  that, 
though  very  handsome,  it  showed  a  fausse  jeunesse,  and  re- 
vealed a  woman  looking  vain  and  imperious,  a  woman  with  the 
expression  of  one  always  on  the  watch  for  new  lovers.  And 
there  had  been  a  cruel  truth  in  her  words.  For,  from  the 
time  when  she  had  given  herself  to  artificiality  until  the  time, 
some  nine  years  later,  when  she  had  plunged  into  what  had 
seemed  to  her,  and  to  many  others,  something  very  like  old 
age.  Lady  SelHngworth  had  definitely  and  continuously  de- 
teriorated, as  all  those  do  who  try  to  defy  any  natural  process. 
Carrying  on  a  fight  in  which  there  is  a  possibility  of  winning 
may  not  do  serious  harm  to  a  character,  but  carrying  on  a 
fight  which  must  inevitably  be  lost  always  hardens  and  em- 
bitters the  combatant.  During  those  years  of  her  fausse 
jeunesse  Lady  SelHngworth  was  at  her  worst. 

For  one  thing  she  became  the  victim  of  jealousy.  She  was 
secretly  jealous  of  good-looking  young  women,  and,  spreading 
her  evil  wide  like  a  cloud,  she  was  even  jealous  of  youth.  To 
be  young  was  to  possess  a  gift  which  she  had  lost,  and  ,a  gift 
which  men  love  as  they  love  but  few  things.  She  could  not 
help  secretly  hating  the  possessors  of  it. 

She  had  now  become  enrolled  in  the  "old  guard,"  and  had 
adopted  as  her  device  their  motto,  'Never  give  up."  She  was 
one  of  the  more  or  less  mysterious  fighters  of  London.  She 
fought  youth  incessantly,  and  she  fought  Time.  And  some- 
times the  weariness  and  the  nausea  of  battle  lay  heavy  upon 
her.  Her  expression  began  to  change.  She  never  lost,  she 
never  could  lose,  her  distinction,  but  it  was  slightly  blurred, 
slightly  tarnished.  She  preserved  the  appearance  of  bonhomie, 
but  her  cordiality,  her  good  nature,  were  not  what  they  had 
been.  Formerly  she  had  had  marvellous  spirits;  now  she  was 
often  accompanied  into  the  world  by  the  black  dog.  And  when 
she  was  alone  he  sat  by  the  hearth  with  her. 


60  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

She  began  to  hate  being  a  widow.  Sometimes  she  thought 
that  she  wished  she  had  had  children.  But  then  it  occurred 
to  her  that  they  might  have  been  daughters,  lovely  girls  now 
perhaps,  showing  to  society  what  she  had  once  been.  With 
such  daughters  she  would  surely  have  been  forced  into  ab- 
dication. For  she  knew  that  she  could  never  have  entered  into 
a  contest  with  her  own  children.  Perhaps  it  was  best  as 
it  was,  best  that  she  was  childless. 

She  might  no  doubt  have  married  a  third  time.  Sir  Seymour 
Portman,  a  bachelor  for  her  sake,  would  have  asked  nothing 
better  than  to  become  her  husband.  And  there  were  other 
middle-aged  and  old  men  who  would  gladly  have  linked  them- 
selves with  her,  and  who  did  not  scruple  to  tell  her  so.  But 
now  she  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  making  a  "suitable"  match. 
Lord  Sellingworth  had  been  old,  and  she  had  been  happy  with 
him.  But  she  had  felt,  and  had  considered  herself  to  be,  young 
when  she  had  married  him.  The  contrast  between  him  and  her- 
self had  been  flattering  to  her  vanity.  It  would  be  different 
now.  And  besides,  with  the  coming  of  middle  age,  and  the 
fatal  fading  of  physical  attraction,  there  had  come  into  her  a 
painful  obsession. 

As  much  as  she  hated  youth  in  women  she  was  attracted 
by  it  in  men.  She  began  secretly  to  worship  youth  as  it  showed 
itself  in  the  other  sex.  Something  in  her  clamoured  for  the 
admiration  and  the  longing  of  the  young  men  who  were 
amorous  of  life,  who  were  comparatively  new  to  the  fray,  who 
had  the  ardour  and  the  freshness  which  could  have  mated  with 
hers  when  she  was  a  girl,  but  which  now  contrasted  violently 
with  her  terribly  complete  experience  and  growing  morbidity. 
She  felt  that  now  she  could  never  marry  a  man  of  her  own 
age  or  older  than  herself,  not  simply  because  she  could  not 
love  such  a  man,  but  because  she  would  be  perpetually  in 
danger  of  loving  a  man  of  quite  another  type. 

She  entered  upon  a  very  ugly  period,  perhaps  the  ugliest 
there  can  be  in  the  secret  life  of  a  woman.  And  it  was  then 
that  there  came  definitely  into  her  face,  and  was  fixed  there, 
the  expression  noted  by  Miss  Van  Tuyn  in  the  photograph 
in  Mrs.  Ackroyd's  drawing-room,  the  expression  of  a  woman 
on  the  pounce. 

There  is  no  food  so  satisfying  to  the  vanity  of  a  middle-aged 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  61 

woman  as  the  admiration  and  desire  of  young  men.  Lady 
Sellingworth  longed  for,  and  sought  for,  that  food,  but  not 
without  inward  shame,  and  occasionally  something  that  ap- 
proached inward  horror.  For  she  had,  and  never  was  able 
to  lose,  a  sense  of  what  was  due  not  merely  to  herself  but 
to  her  better  self.  Here  the  woman  of  the  blood  was  at  grips 
with  the  woman  of  the  grey  matter.  And  the  imp  enthroned 
somewhere  within  her  watched,  marked,  remembered,  con- 
demned. 

That  imp  began  to  persecute  Lady  Sellingworth.  She  would 
have  slain  him  if  she  could,  for  he  was  horribly  critical,  and 
remained  cold  through  all  her  intensities.  In  Paris  he  had 
often  been  useful  to  her,  for  irony  is  appreciated  in  Paris, 
and  he  was  strongly  ironical.  Often  she  felt  as  if  he  had 
eyes  fixed  upon  her  sardonically,  when  she  was  giving  way  to 
the  woman  in  her  blood.  In  Paris  it  had  been  different.  For 
there,  at  any  rate  in  all  the  earlier  years,  he  had  been  criticizing 
and  laughing  at  others.  Now  his  attention  was  always  on  her. 
There  were  moments  when  she  could  almost  hear  his  ugly, 
whispering  voice  telling  her  all  he  thought  about  her,  about 
her  appearance,  her  conduct,  her  future,  about  her  connexions 
with  others  now,  about  the  loneliness  that  was  coming  upon  her. 
She  saw  many  other  women  who  were  evidently  content  in, 
and  unconscious  of,  their  follies.  Why  was  she  not  like  them? 
Why  had  she  been  singled  out  for  this  persecution  of  the  brain. 
It  is  terrible  to  have  a  brain  which  mocks  at  you  instead  of 
happily  mocking  at  others.  And  that  was  her  case.  Later 
she  was  to  understand  herself  better;  she  was  to  understand 
that  her  secret  diffidence  was  connected  with  the  imp,  was  the 
imp's  child  in  her  as  it  were;  later,  too,  she  was  to  learn  that 
the  imp  was  working  for  her  eventual  salvation,  in  the  moral 
sense. 

But  she  had  not  yet  reached  that  turning  in  the  path  of  her 
life. 

During  all  this  period  her  existence  was  apparently  as  suc- 
cessful and  brilliant  as  ever.  She  was  still  a  leader  in  London, 
knowing  and  known  to  everyone,  going  to  all  interesting  func- 
tions, receiving  at  her  house  all  the  famous  men  and  women 
of  the  day.  To  an  observer  it  would  have  seemed  that  she 
occupied  an  impregnable  position  and  that  she  was  having  a 


62  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

wonderful  time.  But  she  was  really  a  very  unhappy  woman 
at  violent  odds  with  herself. 

On  one  occasion  when  she  was  giving  a  dinner  in  her  house 
a  discussion  broke  out  on  the  question  of  happiness.  It  was 
asked  by  someone,  "If  you  could  demand  of  the  gods  one  gift, 
with  the  certainty  of  receiving  it,  what  gift  would  you  demand  ?" 
Various  answers  were  given.  One  said,  "Youth  for  as  long 
as  I  lived";  another  "Perfect  health";  another  "Supreme 
beauty";  another  "The  most  briUiant  intellect  of  my  time"; 
another  "The  love  and  admiration  of  all  I  came  in  contact 
with."  Finally  a  sad-looking  elderly  man,  poet,  philosopher, 
and  the  former  administrator  of  a  great  province  in  India,  was 
appealed  to.  His  answer  was,  "Complete  peace  of  mind."  And 
on  his  answer  followed  the  general  discussion  about  happiness. 

When  the  party  broke  up  and  Lady  Sellingworth  was  alone 
she  thought  almost  desperately  about  that  discussion  and  about 
the  last  answer  to  the  question  which  had  been  put. 

Complete  peace  of  mind !  How  extraordinary  it  would  be 
to  possess  that!  She  could  scarcely  conceive  of  it,  and  it 
seemed  to  her  that  even  in  her  most  wonderful  days,  in  her 
radiant  and  careless  youth,  when  she  had  had  almost  every- 
thing, she  had  never  had  that.  But  then  she  had  not  even 
wanted  to  have  it.  Complete  peace  seems  but  a  chilly  sort 
of  thing  to  youth  in  its  quick-silver  time.  But  later  on  in 
life  we  love  combat  less. 

Suddenly  Lady  Sellingworth  realized  the  age  of  her  mind, 
and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  a  horrible  mixture  of  in- 
cong^ities.  She  was  physically  ageing  slowly  but  surely.  She 
had  appetites  which  were  in  direct  conflict  with  age.  She  had 
desires  all  of  which  turned  towards  youth.  And  her  mind  was 
quite  old.  It  must  be,  she  said  to  herself,  because  now  she 
was  sitting  still  and  longing  to  know  that  complete  peace  of 
mind  which  an  old  man  had  talked  of  that  evening  at  her  dinner 
table. 

A  sort  of  panic  shook  her  as  she  thought  of  all  the  an- 
tagonists which  at  a  certain  period  of  life  gather  together 
to  attack  and  slay  youth,  all  vestiges  of  youth,  in  the  human 
being;  the  unsatisfied  appetites,  the  revolts  of  the  body,  the 
wearinesses  of  soul,  and  the  subtle  and  contradictory  desires 
which  lie  hidden  deep  in  the  mind. 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  63 

She  was  now  intensely  careful  about  her  body,  had  brought 
its  care  almost  to  the  level  of  a  finely  finished  art.  But  she 
had  not  troubled  about  the  disciplining  of  her  mind.  Yet  the 
undisciplined  mind  can  work  havoc  in  the  tissues  of  the  body. 
Youth  of  the  mind,  if  preserved,  helps  the  body  to  continue 
apparently  young.  It  may  not  be  able  to  cause  the  body  actually 
to  look  young,  but  in  some  mysterious  way  it  throws  round  the 
body  a  youthful  atmosphere  which  deceives  many  people,  which 
creates  an  illusion.  And  the  strange  thing  is  that  the  more 
intimate  people  are  with  one  possessing  that  mental  youthful- 
ness,  the  more  strong  is  the  illusion  upon  them.  Atmosphere 
has  a  spell  which  increases  upon  us  the  longer  we  remain 
bathed  in  it.  Lady  Sellingworth  said  all  this  to  herself  that 
night,  and  rebuked  herself  for  letting  her  mind  go  towards 
old  age.  She  rebelled  against  the  longing  for  complete  peace 
of  mind  because  she  now  connected  such  a  longing  with 
stagnation.  And  men,  especially  young  men,  love  vivacity,  rest- 
lessness, the  swift  flying  temperament.  Such  a  temperament 
suggests  to  them  youth.  It  is  old  age  which  sits  still.  Youth 
is  for  ever  on  the  move. 

"I  must  not  long  for  peace  or  anything  of  that  kind!"  she 
said  to  herself. 

Nevertheless  the  lack  of  all  mental  peace  ravages  the  body. 

She  scarcely  knew  what  to  do  for  the  best.  But  eventually 
she  tried  to  take  her  mind  in  hand,  for  she  was  afraid 
of  it,  afraid  of  its  age,  afraid  of  the  effect  its  age  might 
eventually  have  upon  her  appearance.  So  she  strove  to  train 
it  backwards  towards  youthfulness.  For  now  she  was  sure 
that  she  was  not  one  of  those  fortunate  women  who  have  nat- 
urally young  minds  which  refuse  to  grow  old.  She  knew  a 
few  such  women.  She  envied  them  almost  bitterly.  There 
was  no  need  for  them  to  strive.  She  watched  them  sur- 
reptitiously, studied  them,  tried  to  master  their  secret. 

Presently  a  tragic  episode  occurred  in  her  life. 

She  fell  in  love  with  a  man  of  about  twenty-three.  He 
was  the  son  of  people  whom  she  knew  very  well  in  Paris, 
French  people  who  were  almost  her  contemporaries,  and  was 
the  sporting  type  of  Frenchman,  very  good-looking,  lively, 
satirical  and  strong.  He  was  a  famous  lawn  tennis  player 
and  came  ovei  to  London  for  the  tournament  at  Wimbledon. 


64.  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

She  had  already  seen  him  in  Paris,  and  had  known  him  when 
he  was  Httle  more  than  a  boy.  But  she  had  never  thought 
much  about  him  in  those  days.  For  in  those  days  she  had 
not  been  haunted  by  the  passion  for  youth  which  possessed 
her  now. 

Louis  de  Rocheouart  visited  at  her  house  as  a  matter  of 
course,  was  agreeable  and  gallant  to  her  because  she  was  a 
charming  and  influential  woman  and  an  old  friend  of  his  family. 
But  he  did  not  think  of  her  as  a  woman  to  whom  it  was 
possible  that  a  man  of  his  age  could  make  love.  He  looked 
upon  her  as  one  who  had  been  a  famous  beauty,  but  who 
was  now  merely  a  clever,  well-preserved  and  extremely  success- 
ful member  of  the  "old  guard"  of  society  in  London.  Her 
"day"  as  a  beauty  was  in  his  humble  opinion  quite  over.  She 
belonged  to  his  mother's  day.  He  knew  that.  And  his  mother 
happened  to  be  one  of  those  delightful  Frenchwomen  who  are 
spirituelle  at  all  ages,  but  who  never  pretend  to  be  anything 
they  are  not.  His  mother's  hair  was  already  grey,  and  she  had 
two  married  daughters,  one  of  whom  had  been  trusting  enough 
to  make  her  a  grandmother. 

While  Rocheouart  was  in  London  a  number  of  popular 
middle-aged  women  banded  together  and  gave  a  very  smart 
ball  at  Prince's.  Lady  Sellingworth  was  one  of  the  hostesses, 
all  of  whom  danced  merrily  and  appeared  to  be  in  excellent 
spirits  and  health.  It  was  certainly  one  of  the  very  best  balls 
of  the  season,  and  young  men  turned  up  at  it  in  large  num- 
bers.   Among  them  was  young  Rocheouart. 

Lady  Sellingworth  danced  with  him  more  than  once.  That 
night  she  had  almost  managed  to  deceive  herself  as  to  the 
real  truth  of  life.  The  ball  was  being  such  a  success;  the 
scramble  for  invitations  had  been  so  great;  the  young  men 
evidently  found  things  so  lively,  and  seemed  to  be  in  such 
exuberant  spirits,  that  she  was  carried  away,  and  really  felt 
as  if  youth  were  once  more  dancing  through  her  veins  and 
shining  out  of  her  eyes. 

The  "old  guard"  were  in  excelsis  that  night ;  the  Edwardians 
were  in  their  glory  on  the  top  of  the  world.  Probably  more 
than  one  of  them  thought,  "They  can  say  what  they  like, 
but  we  can  cut  out  the  girls  when  we  choose."  Their  savok 
faire  was  immense.    Many  of  them  still  possessed  an  amazing 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  66 

amount  of  the  joie  de  vivre.  And  some  of  them  were  thoroughly- 
sensible  women,  saved  from  absurdity  by  the  blessed  sense 
of  humour. 

But  Lady  Sellingworth  was  by  this  time  desperately  in  love 
with  Louis  de  Rocheouart,  and  her  sense  of  humour  was  in 
abeyance  that  night.  In  consequence,  she  was  the  victim  of 
a  mortification  which  she  was  never  to  forget  as  long  as  she 
lived. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  evening  she  happened  to  be  stand- 
ing with  Sir  Seymour  Portman  near  the  entrance  to  the  ball- 
room, and  overheard  a  scrap  of  conversation  between  two  people 
just  behind  them. 

A  girl's  light  voice  said: 

"Have  you  heard  the  name  Cora  Wellingborough  has  given 
to  this  ball?" 

(The  Duchess  of  Wellingborough  was  one  of  the  hostesses.) 

"No,"  replied  a  voice,  which  Lady  Sellingworth  recognized 
as  the  voice  of  young  Rocheouart.    "What  is  it?" 

"She  calls  it  'The  Hags'  Hop'!  Isn't  it  delicious  of  her? 
It  will  be  all  over  London  to-morrow.  The  name  will  stick. 
In  the  annals  of  London  festivities  to-night  will  always  be 
remembered  as  the  night  of  the  famous  Hags'  Hop." 

Lady  Sellingworth  heard  Rocheouart's  strong,  manly  young 
laugh. 

"That's  just  like  the  duchess !"  he  said.  "She's  simply  made 
of  humour  and  always  hits  the  nail  on  the  head.  And  how 
clever  of  her  to  give  the  right  name  to  the  ball  herself 
instead  of  leaving  it  for  some  pretty  girl  to  do.  The  Hags' 
Hop!  It's  perfect!  If  she  hadn't  said  that,  you  would 
have  before  the  evening  was  out,  and  then  all  the  charming 
hags  would  have  been  furious  with  you." 

The  girl  laughed,  and  she  and  Rocheouart  passed  Lady  Sell- 
ingworth without  noticing  her  and  went  into  the  ballroom. 

She  looked  at  them  as  they  began  to  dance ;  then  she  looked 
at  the  Duchess  of  Wellingborough,  who  was  also  dancing. 

The  duchess  was  frankly  middle-aged.  She  was  very  good-* 
looking,  but  she  had  let  her  figure  go.  Sfie  was  quite  obviously 
the  victim  of  the  "elderly  spread."  Her  health  was  excellent, 
her  sense  of  humour  unfailing.  She  never  pretended  to  any- 
thii^,  but  was  as  natural  almost  as  a  big  child.    Although  a 


66  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

widow,  she  wanted  no  lover.  She  often  said  that  she  had  "got 
beyond  all  that  sort  of  thing."  Another  of  her  laughingly 
frank  sayings  was:  "No  young  man  need  be  afraid  of  me." 
In  consequence  of  her  gaiety,  humour,  frankness  and  hospitality 
she  was  universally  popular. 

But  that  night  Lady  Sellingworth  almost  hated  her. 

The  Hags'  Hop! 

That  horrible  name  stuck  in  Lady  Sellingworth's  mind  and 
seemed  to  fasten  there  like  a  wound  in  a  body. 

As  Rocheouart's  partner  had  foretold,  the  name  went  all 
over  London.  The  duchess's  mot  even  got  into  a  picture 
paper,  and  everyone  laughed  about  it.  The  duchess  was  de- 
lighted. Nobody  seemed  to  mind.  Even  Lady  Sellingworth 
forced  herself  to  quote  the  saying  and  to  make  merry  over 
it.  But  from  that  day  she  gave  up  dancing  entirely.  Nothing 
would  induce  her  even  to  join  in  a  formal  royal  quadrille. 

Before  his  return  to  Paris,  Rocheouart  came  to  bid  her 
good-bye.  Although  she  was  still,  as  she  supposed,  madly 
in  love  with  him,  she  concealed  it,  or,  if  she  showed  it,  did 
so  only  by  being  rather  unnaturally  cold  with  him.  When  he 
was  gone  she  felt  desperate. 

Her  imp  had  perhaps  controlled  her  during  the  short  time 
of  Rocheouart's  final  visit,  had  mocked  and  made  her  fear 
him.  When  she  was  alone,  however,  he  vanished  for  the 
moment. 

From  that  time  the  hidden  diffidence  in  Lady  Sellingworth 
was  her  deadly  enemy,  because  it  fought  perpetually  with  her 
vanity  and  with  her  almost  uncontrollable  desires.  Sometimes 
she  was  tempted  to  give  way  to  it  entirely  and  to  retire  from 
the  fray.  But  she  asked  herself  what  she  had  to  retire  to. 
The  thought  of  a  life  lived  in  the  shade,  or  of  a  definitely 
middle-aged  life,  prolonged  in  such  sunshine  as  falls  upon 
grey-haired  heads,  was  terrible  to  her.  She  was  not  like  the 
Duchess  of  Wellingborough.  She  was  cursed  with  what  was 
called  in  her  set  "a  temperament,"  and  she  did  not  know  how 
to  conquer  it,  did  not  dare,  even,  to  try  to  conquer  it. 

She  soon  forgot  Louis  de  Rocheouart,  but  his  place  was 
not  long  left  empty.    She  fell  in  love  with  another  young  man. 

Eventually — by  this  time  she  had  almost  ceased  to  struggle, 
was  not  far  from  being  a  complete  victim  to  her  temperament 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  67 

— she  seriously  considered  the  possibihty  of  marrying  again, 
and  of  marrying  a  man  many  years  younger  than  herself.  Sev- 
eral women  whom  she  knew  had  done  this.  Why  should  not 
she  do  it?  Such  marriages  seldom  turned  out  well,  seldom 
lasted  very  long.  But  there  were  exceptions  to  every  rule. 
Her  marriage,  if  she  made  it,  might  be  an  exception.  She 
was  now  only  forty-eight.  (She  had  reached  the  age  when 
that  qualifying  word  is  applied  to  the  years.)  Women  older, 
much  older,  than  herself,  had  married  mere  boys.  She  did 
not  intend  to  do  that.  But  why  should  she  not  take  a  charm- 
ing man  of,  say,  thirty  into  her  life? 

The  mere  thought  of  having  such  a  husband,  such  a  com- 
panion in  Number  i8a  Berkeley  Square,  sent  a  glow  through 
her  mind  and  body.  What  a  flood  of  virility,  anticipation,  new 
strength,  new  interests  he  would  bring  with  him!  She  im- 
agined his  loud,  careless  step  on  the  stairs,  his  strong  bass  or 
baritone  voice  resounding  in  the  rooms;  she  heard  the  doors 
banged  by  his  reckless  hand;  she  saw  his  raincoats,  his  caps, 
his  golf  clubs,  his  gun  cases  littering  the  hall.  When  she  mo- 
tored he  would  be  at  the  wheel  instead  of  a  detached  and  rigid- 
faced  chauffeur,  and  he  would  whirl  her  along,  taking  risks 
all  the  time. 

But  would  he  be  able  to  love  her? 

Her  diffidence  and  her  vanity  fought  over  that  question; 
fought  furiously,  and  with  an  ugly  tenacity.  It  seemed  that 
the  vanity  conquered.    For  she  resolved  to  make  the  trial. 

Many  striking  advantages  were  on  her  side.  She  could  give 
any  man  a  magnificent  social  position,  could  take  him  into  the 
heart  of  the  great  world.  Her  husband,  unless  he  were  abso- 
lutely impossible — and  of  course  he  would  not  be — would  be 
welcomed  everywhere  because  of  her.  She  was  rich.  She  had 
unusual  charm.  She  was  quick  witted,  intelligent,  well  read, 
full  of  tact  and  knowledge  of  the  world.  Surely  she  could  be 
a  splendid  companion,  even  a  great  aid,  to  any  man  of  the 
least  ambition.  And  she  was  still  very  handsome — with  diffi- 
culty. 

She  and  her  Greek  alone  knew  exactly  how  much  trouble 
had  to  be  taken  to  keep  her  as  she  was  when  she  went  among 
people. 

She  had  not  been  able  to  do  much  with  her  mind.    It  seemed 


68  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

uncontrollable  by  her.  There  was  no  harmony  in  her  inner  life. 
The  diversities  within  her  were  sharp,  intense.  In  her  king- 
dom of  self  there  was  perpetual  rebellion.  And  the  dis- 
order in  her  moral  life  had  hastened  the  ageing  process  more 
even  than  she  was  aware  of.  Underneath  the  artificial  beauty  of 
her  appearance  she  was  now  older  than  her  years. 

But  she  was  still  very  handsome — with  difficulty. 

She  hardened  herself  after  the  fight  and  resolved  that,  if  she 
chose,  she  could  still  make  almost  any  man  love  her.  That  she 
could  easily  fascinate  she  knew.  Most  people  were  subject 
to  her  easy  charm  and  to  the  delightfully  unaffected  manner 
which  no  amount  of  vanity  had  ever  been  able  to  rid  her  of. 
Surely  the  temporarily  fascinated  man  might  easily  be  changed 
into  the  permanent  lover !  Fear  assailed  her  certainly  when  she 
thought  of  the  danger  of  deliberately  contrasting  with  her 
maturity  the  vividness  of  youth.  To  do  what  she  thought  of 
doing  would  be  to  run  a  great  risk.  When  she  had  married 
Lord  Sellingworth  she  had  provided  herself  with  a  foil  to  her 
beauty  and  to  her  comparative  youth.  To  marry  a  young 
man  would  be  to  make  herself  the  foil.  He  would  emphasize 
her  age  by  his  lack  of  years.    Could  she  dare  it? 

Again  she  hardened  herself  and  resolved  that  she  would 
dare  it.  The  wildness  in  her  came  uppermost,  rose  to  reck- 
lessness. After  me  the  deluge !  She  might  not  be  happy  long 
if  she  married  a  young  husband,  but  she  might  be  happy  for 
a  time.  The  mere  marriage  would  surely  be  a  triumph  for 
her.  And  if  she  had  three  years,  two  years,  even  one  year 
of  happiness,  she  would  sing  a  Laus  Deo  and  let  the  deluge  close 
over  her  head. 

She  began,  in  woman's  quiet  but  penetrating  way,  to  look 
about  her.  She  met  many  young  men  in  the  world,  in  fact 
nearly  all  the  young  eligible  men  of  the  time.  Many  of  them 
came  to  her  house,  for  she  often  gave  parties  to  which  she 
asked  not  only  the  "old  guard"  and  the  well-known  men  of 
the  day,  but  also  the  young  married  women.  Now  she  began 
to  give  small  dances  to  which  she  asked  pretty  young  girls. 
There  was  a  ballroom  built  out  at  the  back  of  her  house.  It 
was  often  in  use.  The  pretty  young  girls  began  to  say  she 
was  "a  dear"  to  bother  so  much  about  them.  Dancing  men 
voted  her  a  thundering  good  hostess  and  a  most  good-natured 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  69 

woman.  In  popularity  she  almost  cut  out  the  Duchess  of 
Wellingborough,  who  sometimes  gave  dances,  too,  for  young 
people. 

Really  through  it  all  she  was  on  the  watch,  was  seeking  the 
possible  husband. 

Presently  she  found  the  man  with  whom  she  could  imagine 
being  almost  desperately  happy  if  he  would  only  fall  in  with 
her  hidden  views.  They  were  so  carefully  hidden  that  not 
one  of  her  friends,  not  one  of  the  "old  guard,"  suspected 
that  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  marry  again  and  to 
make  what  is  universally  called  "a  foolish  marriage." 

His  name  was  Rupert  Louth,  and  he  was  the  fourth  son 
of  an  impecunious  but  delightful  peer,  Lord  Blyston.  He  was 
close  upon  thirty,  and  had  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  time, 
since  his  twentieth  year,  out  of  England.  He  had  ranched 
in  Canada,  and  had  also  done  something  vague  of  the  out- 
door kind  in  Texas.  He  had  fought,  and  was  a  good  man 
of  his  hands.  His  health  was  splendid.  He  was  as  hard  as 
nails  in  condition,  and  as  lively  and  ready  as  they  make  them. 
Many  things  he  could  do,  but  one  thing  he  had  never  been 
able  to  do.  He  had  never  been  able  to  make  money.  His 
gift  lay  rather  in  the  direction  of  joyously  spending  it.  This 
gift  distracted  his  father,  who  confided  to  Lady  Sellingworth 
his  fears  for  the  lad's — he  would  insist  on  calling  Rupert 
the  lad — for  the  lad's  future.  Here  he  was  back  on  the  family's 
hands  with  expensive  tastes  and  no  prospects  whatever ! 

"And  he's  always  after  the  women,  too !"  said  Lord  Blyston, 
with  admiring  despair.  "He's  been  away  from  them  so  long 
there's  no  holding  him." 

After  a  pause  he  added : 

"My  dear  Adela,  if  you  want  to  do  me  a  good  turn  find 
the  lad  a  wife.  His  poor  mother's  gone,  or  she  would  have 
done  it.  What  he  wants  is  a  wife  who  can  manage  him,  with 
a  decent  amount  of  money." 

Without  exactly  saying  so,  Lady  Sellingworth  implied  that 
she  would  see  what  she  could  do  for  Rupert. 

From  that  moment  Lord  Blyston  pushed  "the  lad"  per- 
petually towards  i8a  Berkeley  Square. 

Rupert  Louth  was  fair  and  very  good-looking,  reckless  and 
full  of  go.     And  wherever  he  went  he  carried  with  him  an 


70  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

outdoor  atmosphere.  He  cared  nothing  for  books,  music, 
or  intellectual  pursuits.  Nevertheless,  he  was  at  home  every- 
where, and  quite  as  much  at  ease  in  a  woman's  drawing-room 
as  rounding  up  cattle  in  Canada  or  lassooing  wild  horses  in 
Texas.  He  lived  entirely  and  wholeheartedly  for  the  day,  and 
was  a  magnificent  specimen  of  dashing  animal  life;  for  cer- 
tainly the  animal  predominated  in  him. 

Lady  Sellingworth  fell  in  love  with  him — it  really  was  like 
falling  in  love  each  time — and  resolved  to  marry  him.  A 
wonderful  breath  of  manhood  and  youth  exhaled  from  "the 
lad"  and  almost  intoxicated  her.  It  called  to  her  wildness. 
It  brought  back  to  her  the  days  when  she  had  been  a  mag- 
nificent girl,  had  shot  over  the  moors,  and  had  more  than 
held  her  own  in  the  hunting  field.  After  she  had  married 
Lord  Sellingworth  she  had  given  up  shooting  and  hunting,  had 
devoted  herself  more  keenly  to  the  arts,  to  mental  and  purely 
social  pursuits,  to  the  opera,  the  forming  of  a  salon,  to  politics 
and  to  entertaining,  than  to  the  physical  pleasures  which  had 
formerly  played  such  a  prominent  part  in  her  life.  Since  his 
death  she  had  put  down  her  horses.  But  now  she  began  to 
change  her  mode  of  living.  She  went  with  Rupert  to  Tatter- 
sails,  and  they  picked  up  some  good  horses  together.  She 
began  riding  again,  and  lent  him  a  mount.  She  was  perpetually 
at  Hurlingham  and  Ranelagh,  and  developed  a  passion  for  polo, 
which  he  played  remarkably  well.  She  played  lawn  tennis  at 
King's  Club  in  the  morning,  and  renewed  her  energy  at  golf. 

Louth  was  really  struck  by  her  activity  and  competence, 
and  said  of  her  that  she  was  a  damned  good  sport  and  as 
active  as  a  cat.  He  also  said  that  there  wasn't  a  country 
in  the  world  that  bred  such  wonderful  old  women  as  England. 
This  remark  he  made  to  his  father,  who  rejoined  that  Adela 
Sellingworth  was  not  an  old  woman. 

"Well,  she  must  be  near  fifty!"  said  his  son.  "And  if 
that  isn't  old  for  a  woman  where  are  we  to  look  for  it?" 

Lord  Blyston  replied  that  there  were  many  women  far  older 
than  Adela  Sellingworth,  to  which  his  son  answered : 

"Anyhow,  she's  as  active  as  a  cat,  so  why  don't  you  marry 
her  ?" 

"She's  twenty  years  too  young  for  me,"  said  Lord  Blyston. 
"I  should  bore  her  to  death." 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  71 

It  had  just  occurred  to  him  that  Rupert  could  be  very 
comfortable  on  Lord  Sellingworth's  and  Lord  ^Vlanham's  com- 
bined fortunes,  though  he  had  no  idea  that  Lady  Sellingworth 
had  ever  thought  of  "the  lad"  as  a  possible  husband. 

Other  people,  however,  noticed  the  new  development  in  her 
life. 

Every  morning  quite  early  she  was  to  be  seen,  perfectly 
mounted,  cantering  in  the  Row,  often  with  Rupert  Louth  be- 
side her.  Her  extraordinary  interest  in  every  branch  of  athletics 
was  generally  remarked.  She  even  went  to  boxing  matches, 
and  was  persuaded  to  give  away  prizes  at  a  big  meeting  at 
Stamford  Bridge. 

Although  she  never  said  a  word  about  it  to  anyone,  this 
sudden  outburst  of  intense  bodily  activity  at  her  age  presently 
began  to  tire,  then  almost  to  exhaust  her.  The  strain  upon 
her  was  great,  too  great.  Whatever  Rupert  Louth  did,  he 
never  turned  a  hair.  But  she  was  nearly  twenty  years  older 
than  he  was,  and  decidedly  out  of  training.  She  fought  des- 
perately against  her  physical  fatigue,  and  showed  a  gay  face 
to  the  world.  But  a  horrible  conviction  possessed  her.  She 
began  presently  to  feel  certain  that  her  effort  to  live  up  to 
Rupert  Louth's  health  and  vigour  was  hastening  the  ageing 
process  in  her  body.  By  what  she  was  doing  she  was  marring 
her  chance  of  preserving  into  old  age  the  appearance  of  com- 
parative youth.  Sometimes  at  night,  when  all  the  activities 
of  the  day  were  over  and  there  was  no  prospect  of  seeing  Rupert 
again  until,  at  earliest,  the  following  morning,  she  felt  abso- 
lutely haggard  with  weariness  of  body — felt,  as  she  said  to 
herself  with  a  shudder,  like  an  old  hag.  But  she  could  not 
give  up,  could  not  rest,  for  Rupert  expected  of  everyone  who 
was  not  definitely  laid  on  the  shelf  inexhaustible  energy, 
tireless  vitality.  His  own  perpetual  freshness  was  a  marvel, 
and  fascinated  Lady  Sellingworth.  To  be  with  him  was  like 
being  with  eternal  youth,  and  made  her  long  for  her  own 
lost  youth  with  an  ache  of  desperation.  But  to  act  being  young 
is  hideously  different  from  being  actually  young.  She  acted 
astonishingly  well,  but  she  paid  for  every  moment  of  the 
travesty,  and  Rupert  never  noticed,  never  had  the  least  sus- 
picion of  all  she  was  going  through  on  account  of  him. 

To  him  she  was  merely  a  magnificently  hospitable  pal  of 


72  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

his  father's,  who  took  a  kindly  interest  in  him.  He  found 
her  capital  company.  He,  like  everyone  else,  felt  her  easy 
fascination,  enjoyed  being  with  her.  But,  like  Rocheouart 
of  the  past  days,  he  never  thought  of  her  as  a  possible  lover. 
Nor  did  it  ever  occur  to  him  that  she  was  thinking  of  him 
as  a  possible  husband.  He  always  wanted,  and  generally  man- 
aged to  have  a  splendid  time;  and  he  was  quite  willing  to 
be  petted  and  spoilt  and  made  much  of ;  but  he  was  not,  under 
a  mask  of  carelessness,  a  cold  and  persistent  egoist.  He  really 
was  just  what  he  seemed  to  be,  a  light-hearted,  rather  up- 
roarious, and  very  healthy  young  man,  intent  on  enjoying 
himself,  and  recklessly  indifferent  to  the  future.  He  was 
quite  willing  to  eat  Lady  Sellingworth's  excellent  dinners,  to 
ride  her  spirited  horses,  to  sit  in  her  opera  box  and  look  at 
pretty  women  while  others  listened  to  music,  but  it  never 
occurred  to  him  that  it  would  be  the  act  of  a  wise  man  to 
try  to  put  her  fortune  into  his  own  pocket  at  the  price  of 
marrying  her. 

His  lack  of  self-interest,  which  she  divined,  charmed  Lady 
Sellingworth ;  on  the  other  hand,  she  was  tormented  by  his 
detachment  from  her,  by  his  lack  of  all  vision  of  the  truth 
of  the  situation.    And  she  was  perpetually  tortured  by  jealousy. 

Before  she  had  been  in  love  with  Rupert  she  had  often 
left  jealous.  All  women  of  her  temperament  are  subject  to 
jealousy,  and  all  middle-aged  people  who  worship  youth  un- 
suitably have  felt  its  sting.  But  she  had  never  before  known 
jealousy  as  she  knew  it  now. 

Although  she  was  so  often  with  Rupert  she  was  more  often 
not  with  him.  He  made  no  pretences  of  virtue  to  her  or  to 
anyone  else.  He  was  a  cheery  Pagan,  a  good  sport  and — 
no  doubt — a  devil  among  the  women.  Being  a  thorough  gentle- 
man he  never  talked,  as  some  vulgar  men  do,  of  his  conquests. 
But  Lady  Sellingworth  knew  that  his  silence  probably  covered 
a  multitude  of  sins.  And  her  ignorance  of  the  greater  part  of 
his  life  often  ravaged  her. 

What  was  he  doing  when  he  was  not  with  her?  Whom 
was  he  making  love  to? 

His  name  was  not  specially  connected  with  that  of  any 
girl  whom  she  knew  in  society.  But  she  had  reason  to  know 
that  he   spent  a  lot   of   his   time   out  of    society   in   circles 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  73 

to  which  she  had  never  penetrated.  Doubtless  he  met  quantities 
of  women  whose  names  she  had  never  heard  of,  unknown 
women  of  the  stage,  women  who  went  to  night  clubs,  women 
of  the  curious  world  which  floats  between  the  aristocracy  and 
the  respectable  middle  classes,  which  is  as  well  dressed  as 
the  one  and  greedier  even  than  the  other,  which  seems  always 
to  have  unlimited  money,  and  which,  nevertheless,  has  often 
no  visible  means  of  subsistence. 

She  lay  awake  often,  when  she  badly  needed  sleep,  wonder- 
ing where  Rupert  was  and  what  he  was  doing. 

Jealousy,  combined  with  unnatural  physical  exertion,  and 
the  perpetual  endeavour  to  throw  round  her  an  atmosphere  of 
youth,  energy  and  unceasing  cheerfulness,  wrought  havoc  in 
Lady  Sellingworth.  Her  appearance  began  to  deteriorate. 
Deeper  lines  became  visible  near  her  eyes,  and  the  light  of 
those  eyes  was  feverish.  Her  nerves  began  to  go  to  pieces. 
Restlessness  increased  upon  her.  She  was  scarcely  able  to  keep 
still  for  a  moment.  The  more  she  needed  repose  the  more 
incapable  of  repose  she  became.  The  effort  to  seem  younger, 
gayer,  stronger  than  she  was  became  at  last  almost  convulsive. 
Her  social  art  was  tarnished.  The  mechanism  began  to  be 
visible. 

People  noticed  the  change  in  her  and  began  to  discuss  it, 
and  more  than  one  of  the  "old  guard"  hit  upon  the  reason  of 
it.  It  became  subtly  known  and  whispered  about  that  Adela 
Sellingworth  was  desperately  in  love  with  Rupert  Louth.  Sev- 
eral of  her  friends  hinted  at  their  knowledge  to  Lady  Selling- 
worth,  and  she  was  forced  to  laugh  at  the  idea  as  absurd, 
knowing  that  her  laughter  would  serve  no  good  end.  These 
experienced  women  knew.  Impossible  to  deceive  them  about 
a  thing  of  that  kind !  They  were  mercilessly  capable  in  de- 
tecting a  hidden  passion  in  one  of  their  body.  Their  intrigues 
and  loves  were  usually  common  property,  known  to,  and 
frankly  discussed  by  them  all. 

Lady  Sellingworth  presently  had  the  satisfaction  of  knowing 
that  the  whole  of  the  "old  guard"  was  talking  about  her  pas- 
sion for  Rupert  Louth.  This  fact  drove  her  to  a  hard  de- 
cision which  was  not  natural  to  her.  She  wanted  to  marry 
Rupert  because  she  was  in  love  with  him.  But  now  she  felt 
she  must  marry  him  to  save  her  own  pride  before  her  merciless 


74  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

fellow-women.  She  decided  that  the  time  had  come  when 
she  must  trample  on  her  own  delicacy  and  prove  that  she  still 
possessed  the  power  of  a  conqueror.  Otherwise  she  would  be 
laughed  at  by  the  greater  part  of  the  society  in  which  she 
usually  lived. 

She  resolved  to  open  Rupert  Louth's  eyes  and  to  make  him 
understand  that  she  and  all  she  stood  for  were  at  his  disposal. 
She  knew  he  was  up  to  the  eyes  in  debt.  She  knew  he  had 
no  prospects.  Lord  Blyston  had  no  money  to  give  him,  and 
was  for  ever  in  difficulties  himself.  It  was  a  critical  moment 
for  Louth,  and  a  critical  moment  for  her.  Their  marriage 
would  smooth  out  the  whole  situation,  would  set  him  free 
from  all  money  miseries,  and  her  from  greater  miseries  still — 
torments  of  desire,  and  the  horror  of  being  laughed  at  or 
pitied  by  her  s.et.  And  in  any  case  she  felt  that  the  time 
had  arrived  when  she  must  do  something  drastic;  must  either 
achieve  or  frankly  and  definitely  give  up.  She  knew  that 
she  was  nearing  the  end  of  her  tether.  She  could  not  much 
longer  keep  up  the  brilliant  pretence  of  being  an  untiring 
Amazon  crammed  full  of  the  joie  de  vivre  which  she  had  as- 
sumed for  the  purpose  of  winning  Rupert  Louth  as  a  husband. 
Her  powers  of  persistence  were  rapidly  waning.  Only  will 
drove  her  along,  in  defiance  of  the  warnings  and  protests  of 
her  body.  But  the  untiring  Amazon  was  cracking  up,  to  use 
a  favourite  expression  of  Louth's.  Soon  the  weary,  middle-aged 
woman  must  claim  her  miserable  rights :  the  right  to  be  tired 
occasionally,  the  right  to  "slack  ofif"  at  certain  hours  of  the 
day,  the  right  to  find  certain  things  neither  suitable  nor 
amusing  to  her,  the  right,  in  fact,  to  be  now  and  then  a 
middle-aged  woman.  Certainly  something  in  her  said  to  Lady 
Sellingworth :  "In  your  marriage,  if  you  marry,  you  will  have 
to  act  even  better,  even  more  strenuously,  than  you  are  acting 
now.  Being  in  love  as  you  are,  you  will  never  be  able  to 
dare  to  be  your  true  self.  Your  whole  married  life  will  be  a 
perpetual  throwing  of  dust  in  the  eyes  of  your  husband.  To 
keep  him  you  will  have  to  live  backwards,  or  to  try  to  live 
backwards,  all  the  time.  If  you  are  tired  now,  what  will  you 
be  then?"  And  she  knew  that  the  voice  was  speaking  the 
truth.  Her  imp,  too,  was  watching  her  closely  and  with  an 
ugly  intensity  of  irony  as  she  approached  her  decision. 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  75 

Nevertheless,  she  defied  him;  she  defied  the  voice  within 
her,  and  took  it.  She  said  to  herself,  or  her  worn  nervous 
system  said  to  her,  that  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done. 
In  her  fatigue  of  body  and  nerves  she  felt  reckless  as  only 
the  nearly  worn  out  feel.  Something — she  didn't  know  what — 
had  cast  the  die  for  her.  It  was  her  fate  to  open  Rupert 
Louth's  eyes,  to  make  him  see ;  it  was  her  fate  to  force  her  will 
into  a  last  strong  spasm.  She  would  not  look  farther  than 
the  day.  She  would  not  contemplate  her  married  life  im- 
aginatively, held  in  contemplation,  like  a  victim,  by  the  icy 
hands  of  reason.  She  would  kick  reason  out,  harden  herself, 
give  her  wildness  free  play,  and  act,  concentrating  on  the  pres- 
ent with  all  the  force  of  which  her  diseased  nerves  were  capable. 

Instead  of  thinking  just  then  "after  me  the  deluge,"  her 
thought  was  "after  my  marriage  to  Rupert  Louth  the  deluge." 
She  would,  she  must,  make  him  her  husband.  It  would  be 
perhaps  the  last  assertion  of  her  power.  She  knew  enough 
of  men  to  know  that  such  an  assertion  might  well  be  followed 
by  disaster.  But  she  was  prepared  to  brave  any  disaster  except 
one,  the  losing  of  Louth  and  the  subsequent  ironical  amusement 
of  the  "old  guard." 

Two  or  three  days  later  Louth  called,  mounted  on  one  of 
her  horses,  to  take  her  for  a  ride  in  the  park. 

During  the  previous  night  Lady  Sellingworth  had  scarcely 
slept  at  all.  She  had  got  up  feeling  desperately  nervous  and 
almost  lightheaded.  On  looking  in  the  glass  she  had  been 
shocked  at  her  appearance,  but  she  had  managed  to  alter  that 
considerably,  although  not  so  completely  as  she  wished.  De- 
pression, following  inevitably  on  insomnia,  had  fixed  its  claws 
in  her.  She  felt  deadly,  almost  terrible,  and  as  if  her  face 
must  be  showing  plainly  the  ugliness  of  her  mental  condition. 
For  she  seemed  to  have  lost  control  over  it.  The  facial 
muscles  seemed  to  have  hardened,  to  have  become  fixed.  When 
the  servant  came  to  tell  her  that  Louth  and  the  horses  were 
at  the  door  she  was  almost  afraid  to  go  down,  lest  he  should 
see  at  once  in  her  face  the  strong  will  power  which  she  had 
summoned  up  as  a  weapon  in  this  crisis  of  her  life. 

As  she  went  slowly  downstairs  she  forced  herself  to  smile. 
The  smile  came  with  difficulty,  but  it  came,  and  when  she  met 
Louth  he  did  not  seem  to  notice  any  peculiarity  in  her.     But, 


76  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

to  tell  the  truth,  he  scarcely  seemed  to  notice  her  at  all  with 
any  particularity.  For  her  strange  and  abnormal  pre-occupation 
was  matched  by  a  like  pre-occupation  in  him.  He  took  off  his 
hat,  bade  her  good  morning,  and  helped  her  skilfully  to 
mount.  But  she  saw  at  once  that  he  was  not  as  usual.  His 
face  was  grave  and  looked  almost  thoughtful.  The  merry  light 
had  gone  out  of  his  eyes.  And,  strangest  phenomenon  of  all, 
he  was  tongue-tied.  They  started  away  from  the  house,  and 
rode  through  Mayfair  towards  the  park  in  absolute  silence. 

She  began  to  wonder  very  much  what  was  the  matter  with 
Rupert,  and  guessed  that  he  had  "come  an  awful  cropper" 
of  some  kind.  It  must  certainly  be  an  exceptional  cropper 
to  cloud  his  spirit.  Perhaps  he  had  lost  a  really  large  sum 
of  money,  or  perhaps  he 

The  thought  of  a  woman  came  suddenly  to  her,  she  did 
not  know  why.  Suspicion,  jealousy  woke  in  her.  She  glanced 
sideways  at  Rupert  under  her  hard  hat.  He  looked  splendid 
on  horseback,  handsomer  even  than  when  he  was  on  foot.  For 
he  was  that  rare  thing,  a  really  perfect  horseman.  His  appear- 
ance disarmed  her.  She  longed  to  do  something  for  him,  by 
some  act  of  glowing  generosity  to  win  him  completely.  But 
they  were  still  in  the  streets,  and  she  said  nothing.  Directly 
they  turned  into  the  green  quietude  of  the  park,  however, 
she  yielded  to  her  impulse  and  spoke,  and  asked  him  bluntly 
what  was  the  matter. 

He  did  not  fence  with  her.  Fencing  was  not  easy  to  him. 
He  turned  in  the  saddle,  faced  her,  and  told  her  that  he  had 
made  a  damned  fool  of  himself.  Still  bent  on  generosity,  on 
being  more  than  a  friend  to  him,  she  asked  him  to  tell  her 
how.  His  reply  almost  stunned  her.  A  fortnight  previously 
he  had  secretly  married  a  Miss  Willoughby — really  a  Miss 
Bertha  Crouch,  and  quite  possibly  of  Crouch  End — who  was 
appearing  in  a  piece  at  the  Alhambra  Theatre,  but  who  had 
not  yet  arrived  at  the  dignity  of  a  "speaking  part."  This  young 
lady,  it  seemed,  had  already  "landed"  Louth  in  expenses  which 
he  didn't  know  how  to  meet.  What  was  he  to  do?  She 
was^  the  loveliest  thing  on  earth,  but  she  was  accustomed 
to  living  in  unbridled  luxury.  In  fact  she  wanted  the  earth, 
and  he  was  longing  to  give  it  to  her.  But  how?  Where 
could  he  possibly  get  hold  of  enough  money  for  the  purchase 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  TT 

of  the  earth  on  behalf  of  Miss  Bertha  Crouch — now  Willoughby, 
or,  rather,  now  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Rupert  Louth?  His  face 
softened,  his  manner  grew  almost  boyishly  eager,  as  he  poured 
confidences  into  Lady  Sellingworth's  ears.  She  was  his  one 
real  friend !  She  was  a  woman  of  the  world.  She  had  lived 
ever  so  much  longer  than  he  had  and  knew  five  times  as  much. 
What  would  she  advise?  Might  he  bring  little  Bertha  to  see 
her?  Bertha  was  really  the  most  splendid  little  sort,  although 
naturally  she  wanted  to  have  the  things  other  women  had — 
etc.,  etc. 

When  she  got  home  that  day  Lady  Sellingworth  almost 
crumbled.  By  a  supreme  effort  during  the  rest  of  the  ride 
she  had  managed  to  conceal  the  fact  that  she  had  received 
a  blow  over  the  heart.  The  pride  on  which  she  had  been  in- 
tending to  trample  when  she  came  downstairs  that  morning 
had  come  to  her  aid  in  that  difficult  moment.  The  woman 
of  the  world  had,  as  Louth  would  have  said,  "come  up  to 
the  scratch."  But  when  she  was  alone  she  gave  way  to  an 
access  of  furious  despair ;  and,  shut  up  in  her  bedroom  behind 
locked  doors,  was  just  a  savage  human  being  who  had  been 
horribly  wounded,  and  who  was  unable  to  take  any  revenge 
for  the  wound.  She  could  not  take  any  revenge,  because  she 
was  not  the  sort  of  woman  who  could  go  quite  into  the  gutter. 
And  she  knew  even  in  her  writhings  of  despair  that  Rupert 
Louth  would  go  scot  free.  She  would  never  try  to  punish  him 
for  what  he  had  done  to  her :  and  he  would  never  know  he  had 
done  it,  unless  one  of  the  "old  guard"  told  him. 

It  was  when  she  thought  of  the  "old  guard"  that  Lady 
Sellingworth  almost  crumbled,  almost  went  to  pieces.  For 
she  knew  that  whatever  she  did,  or  left  undone,  she  would 
never  succeed  in  deceiving  its  members.  She  would  not  have 
been  deceived  herself  if  circumstances  had  been  changed,  if 
another  woman  had  been  in  her  situation  and  she  had  been 
an  onlooker.     "They"  would  all  know. 

For  a  moment  she  thought  of  flight. 

But  this  episode  ended  in  the  usual  way;  it  ended  in  the 
usual  efifort  of  the  poor  human  being  to  safeguard  the  sacred 
things  by  deception.  Lady  Sellingworth  somehow — how  do 
human  beings  achieve  such  efforts? — pulled  herself  together 


78  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

and  gave  herself  to  pretence.  She  pretended  to  Louth  that 
she  was  his  best  friend  and  had  never  thought  of  being  any- 
thing else.  She  was  the  receptacle  for  the  cascade  of  his 
confidences.  She  swore  to  help  him  in  any  way  she  could. 
Even  she  received  "the  Crouch,"  once  Willoughby  and  still 
Willoughby  to  the  "nuts"  who  frequented  the  stalls  of  the 
Alhambra.  She  received  that  tall  and  voluptuous  young  woman, 
with  her  haughty  face  and  her  disdainful  airs,  and  she  bore 
with  her  horrible  proprietorship  of  Louth,  And  finally  she 
broke  it  to  Lord  Blyston  at  Rupert's  earnest  request. 

That  should  have  been  her  supreme  efifort.  But  it  was  not. 
There  is  no  rest  in  pretence.  As  soon  as  Lord  Blyston 
knew,  everyone  knew,  including  the  "old  guard."  And  then, 
of  course.  Lady  Sellingworth's  energies  had  all  to  be  called 
into  full  play. 

It  was  no  wonder  if  underneath  the  cleverness  of  her  Greek 
she  aged  rapidly,  more  rapidly  than  was  natural  in  a  woman 
of  her  years.  For  she  had  piled  effort  on  effort.  She  had 
been  young  for  Rupert  Louth  until  she  had  been  physically 
exhausted;  and  then  she  had  been  old  for  him  until  she 
was  mentally  exhausted.  The  hardy  Amazon  had  been  forced 
to  change  in  a  moment,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  into  the 
calm  and  middle-aged  adviser  of  hot  passioned  youth,  into  the 
steady  unselfish  confidante,  into  the  breaker  of  untoward  news 
to  the  venerable  parent — in  fact,  into  IMother  Hubbard,  as 
Lady  Sellingworth  more  than  once  desperately  told  herself. 

"Mother  Hubbard!  Mother  Hubbard!  I'm  just  Mother 
Hubbard  to  him  and  to  that  horrible  girl !" 

And  she  saw  herself  as  Mother  Hubbard,  a  "dame."  And 
she  alone  knew  how  absolutely  bare  her  cupboard  was  at  that 
time.  But  she  struggled  on  magnificently,  taking  no  rest; 
she  faced  the  "old  guard"  with  splendid  courage,  in  fact 
with  such  splendid  courage  that  most  of  them  pretended  to  be 
deceived,  and  perhaps — for  is  not  everything  possible  in  this 
life? — perhaps  two  or  three  of  them  really  were  deceived. 

The  Duchess  of  Wellingborough  said  often  at  this  time: 
"Addie  Sellingworth  has  the  stuflf  in  her  of  a  leader  of  forlorn 
hopes !" 

Lord  Blyston  paid  up  for  "the  Crouch,"  once  Willoughby, 
who  had  now  left  the  Alhambra  disconsolate.     He  paid  up 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  79 

by  selling  the  only  estate  he  still  possessed,  and  letting  his  one 
remaining  country  house  to  an  extraordinarily  vulgar  manu- 
facturer from  the  Midlands,  who  did  not  know  a  Turner  from 
a  Velasquez  until  he  was  told.  And  for  the  time  "the  Crouch" 
was  as  satisfied  as  a  woman  of  her  type  can  ever  be. 

Time  passed  on.  Lady  Sellingworth  went  about  everywhere 
with  a  smiling  carefully-made-up  face  and  a  heart  full  of  dust 
and  ashes. 

But  even  then  she  could  not  make  up  her  mind  finally  to 
abandon  all  pretence  of  youth,  all  hope  of  youth's  distractions, 
pleasures,  even  joys.  She  had  a  terribly  obstinate  nature,  it 
seemed,  a  terribly  strong  lust  after  life. 

Even  her  imp  could  not  lash  her  into  acceptance  of  the 
inevitable,  could  not  drive  her  with  his  thongs  of  irony  into 
the  dignity  which  only  comes  when  the  human  being  knows  how 
to  give  up,  and  when. 

But  what  the  imp  could  not  achieve  was  eventually  achieved 
by  a  man,  whose  name  Lady  Sellingworth  did  not  know. 

This  was  how  it  happened. 

One  day  when  Lady  Sellingworth  was  walking  down  Bond 
Street — it  was  in  the  morning  and  she  was  with  the  Duchess 
of  Wellingborough — an  extraordinarily  handsome  young  man, 
whom  neither  of  them  knew,  met  them  and  passed  by.  He 
was  tall,  brown  skinned,  with  soft,  very  intelligent  brown  eyes, 
and  strong,  manly  and  splendidly  cut  features.  His  thick  brown 
hair  was  brushed,  his  little  brown  moustache  was  cut,  like 
a  Guardsman's.  But  he  was  certainly  not  a  Guardsman.  He 
was  not  even  an  Englishman,  although  he  was  dressed  in  a 
smart  country  suit  made  evidently  by  a  first-rate  London  tailor. 
There  was  something  faintly  exotic  about  his  eyes,  and  his  way 
of  holding  himself  and  moving,  which  suggested  to  Lady 
Sellingworth  either  Spain  or  South  America.  She  was  not 
quite  sure  which.  He  gave  her  a  long  look  as  he  went  by, 
and  she  felt  positive  that  he  turned  to  glance  after  her  when 
he  had  passed  her.  But  this  she  never  knew,  as  naturally  she 
did  not  turn  her  head. 

"What  an  extraordinarily  good-looking  man  that  was !"  said 
the  Duchess  of  Wellingborough.     "I  wonder  who  he  is.     If 

"  — she  mentioned  a  well-known  Spanish  duke — "had  a 

brother  that  might  be  the  man.    Do  you  know  who  he  is  ?" 


80  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

"No,"  said  Lady  Sellingworth. 

"Well,  he  must  know  who  you  are." 

"Why?" 

"He  seemed  deeply  interested  in  you." 

Lady  Sellingworth  wanted  to  say  that  a  young  man  might 
possibly  be  deeply  interested  in  her  without  knowing  who 
she  was.  But  she  did  not  say  it.  It  was  not  worth  while. 
And  she  knew  the  duchess  had  not  meant  to  be  ill-natured. 

She  lunched  with  the  duchess  that  day  in  Grosvenor  Square, 
and  met  several  of  the  "old  guard"  whom  she  knew  very 
well,  disastrously  well.  After  lunch  the  duchess  alluded  to 
the  brown  man  they  had  met  in  Bond  Street,  described  him 
minutely,  and  asked  if  anyone  knew  him.  Nobody  knew  him. 
But  after  the  description  everyone  wanted  to  know  him.  It 
was  generally  supposed  that  he  must  be  one  of  the  strangers 
from  distant  countries  who  are  perpetually  flocking  to  London. 

"We  shall  probably  all  know  him  in  a  week  or  two,"  said 
someone.  "A  man  of  that  type  is  certain  to  have  brought  in- 
troductions." 

"If  he  has  brought  one  for  Adela  I'm  sure  he'll  deliver 
that  first,"  said  the  duchess,  with  her  usual  almost  boisterous 
good  humour. 

And  thereupon  she  told  the  "old  guard"  of  the  stranger's 
evident  interest  in  Lady  Sellingworth. 

Although  she  completely  concealed  it.  Lady  Sellingworth 
felt  decided  interest  in  the  brown  man.  The  truth  was  that 
his  long  and  ardent — yet  somehow  not  impudently  ardent — 
look  at  her  had  stirred  the  dust  and  ashes  in  her  heart.  It 
was  as  if  a  little  of  the  dust  rose  and  floated  away,  as  if 
some  of  the  ashes  crumbled  into  a  faint  grey  powder  which  was 
almost  nothingness. 

At  that  moment  she  was  in  the  dangerous  mood  when  a 
woman  of  her  type  will  give  herself  to  almost  any  distraction 
which  promises  a  possible  adventure,  or  which  holds  any  food 
for  her  almost  starving  vanity.  Her  love — or  was  it  really  lust 
— for  Rupert  Louth  still  ravaged  her.  The  thought  of  "the 
Crouch's"  triumph  still  persecuted  her  mind.  Terrible  pictures 
of  a  happiness  she  had  no  share  in  still  made  every  night  hide- 
ous to  her.  She  longed  for  Rupert  Louth,  but  she  longed  also 
to  be  reinstated  in  her  self-esteem.    That  glance  of  a  stranger 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  81 

had  helped  her.  She  asked  herself  whether  a  man  of  that 
type,  young,  amazingly  handsome,  would  ever  send  such  a 
glance  to  Mother  Hubbard.  Suddenly  she  felt  safer,  as  if 
she  could  hold  up  her  head  once  more.  Really  she  had  always 
held  it  up,  but  to  herself,  since  Louth's  blunt  confession,  she 
had  been  a  woman  bowed  down,  old,  done  with,  a  thing  fit 
for  the  scrap  heap.  Now  a  slight,  almost  trembling  sensation 
of  returning  self-esteem  stole  through  her.  She  could  not  have 
been  mistaken  about  the  brown  man's  interest  in  her,  for  the 
Duchess  of  Wellingborough  had  specially  noticed  it.  She  won- 
dered who  he  was,  whether  he  really  had  brought  introductions, 
where  he  was  staying,  whether  he  would  presently  appear  in 
her  set.  His  brown  eyes  were  gentle  and  yet  enterprising.  He 
looked  like  a  sportsman,  she  thought,  and  yet  as  if  he  were 
more  intellectual,  more  subtle  than  Louth.  There  seemed 
to  be  a  slight  thread  of  sympathy  between  her  and  him !  She 
had  felt  it  immediately  when  they  had  met  in  Bond  Street. 
She  wondered  whether  he  had  felt  it  too. 

In  all  probability  if  Lady  Sellingworth  had  been  in  a 
thoroughly  normal  condition  at  this  time  she  would  not  have 
thought  twice  about  such  a  trifling  episode  as  a  stranger's 
glance  at  her  in  the  street.  But  she  was  not  in  a  normal 
condition.  She  was  the  prey  of  acute  depression  and  morbidity. 
Life  was  becoming  hideous  to  her.  She  exaggerated  her  lone- 
liness in  the  midst  of  society.  She  had  mentally  constructed 
for  herself  a  new  life  with  Louth  as  her  husband.  Imaginatively 
she  had  lived  that  life  until  it  had  become  strangely  familiar 
to  her,  as  an  imagined  life  can  become  to  a  highly  strung 
woman.  The  abrupt  and  brutal  withdrawal  of  all  possibility 
of  it  as  a  reality  had  made  the  solitude  of  her  widowhood  seem 
suddenly  terrible,  unnatural,  a  sort  of  nightmare.  She  had 
moments  of  desperation  in  which  she  said  to  herself,  "This 
cannot  go  on.  I  can't  live  alone  any  more  or  I  shall  go  mad." 
In  such  moments  she  sometimes  thought  of  rewarding  Sir 
Seymour  Portman's  long  fidelity.  But  something  in  her,  some- 
thing imperious,  shrank  at  the  thought.  She  did  not  want  to 
marry  an  elderly  man. 

And  yet  it  seemed  that  no  young  man  would  ever  want  to 
marry  her. 

She  shuddered  before  the  mysteries  of  the  flesh.    Often  she 


82  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

was  shaken  by  a  storm  of  self-pity.  Darkness  yawned  before 
her.  And  she  still  longed,  as  she  thought  no  other  woman 
could  ever  have  longed,  for  happiness,  companionship,  a  virile 
affection. 

For  some  days  she  did  not  see  the  stranger  again,  although 
she  was  several  times  in  Bond  Street.  She  began  to  think, 
to  fear,  he  had  left  London;  yes — to  fear!  It  had  come 
to  that!  Realizing  it,  she  felt  humiliation.  But  his  eyes  had 
seemed  to  tell  her  that  she  possessed  for  him  great  attraction ! 
She  longed  to  see  those  eyes  again,  to  decipher  their  message 
more  carefully.  The  exact  meaning  of  it  might  have  escaped 
her  in  that  brief  instant  of  encounter.  She  wondered  whether 
the  young  man  had  known  who  she  was,  or  whether  he  had 
merely  been  suddenly  struck  by  her  appearance,  and  had 
thought,  "I  wish  I  knew  that  woman."  She  wondered  what 
exactly  was  his  social  status.  No  doubt  if  he  had  been  English 
she  could  have  "placed"  him  at  once,  or  if  he  had  been  French. 
But  he  was  neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  And  she  had  had 
little  time  to  make  up  her  mind  about  him,  although,  of  course, 
his  good  looks  had  leaped  to  the  eye. 

She  had  begun  to  think  that  Destiny  had  decided  against 
another  encounter  between  her  and  this  man  when  one  day 
Seymour  Portman  asked  her  to  lunch  with  him  at  the  Carl- 
ton. She  accepted  and  went  into  the  restaurant  at  the  ap- 
pointed time.  It  was  crowded  with  people,  many  of  whom 
she  knew,  but  one  table  near  that  allotted  to  the  general's  party 
had  two  empty  chairs  before  it.  On  it  was  a  card  with  the 
word  "Reserved."  Soon  after  the  general's  guests  had  begun 
to  lunch,  when  Lady  Sellingworth  was  in  the  full  flow  of 
conversation  with  her  host,  by  whose  side  she  was  sitting,  and 
with  a  hunting  peer  whom  she  had  known  all  her  life,  and 
who  sat  on  her  other  side,  two  people  made  their  way  to 
the  table  near  by  and  sat  down  in  the  empty  chairs.  One  was 
an  old  woman  in  a  coal-black  wig,  with  a  white  face  and 
faded  eyes,  rather  vague  and  dull  in  appearance,  but  well 
dressed  and  quietly  self-assured,  the  other  was  the  man  Lady 
Sellingworth  had  met  in  Bond  Street.  He  took  the  chair 
which  was  nearly  opposite  to  her;  but  whether  deliberately  or 
by  accident  she  had  no  time  to  notice.  He  did  not  look  at  her 
for  several  minutes  after  sitting  down.     He  was  apparently 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  83 

busy  ordering  lunch,  consulting  with  a  waiter,  and  speaking  to 
his  old  companion,  whose  coal-black  wig  made  a  rather  strange 
contrast  with  her  lined  white  cheeks  and  curiously  indefinite 
eyes.  But  presently,  with  a  sort  of  strong  deliberation,  his 
gaze  was  turned  on  Lady  Sellingworth,  and  she  knew  at  once 
that  he  had  seen  her  when  he  came  in.  She  met  his  gaze 
for  an  instant,  and  this  time  seemed  to  be  definitely  aware  of 
some  mysterious  thread  of  sympathy  between  her  and  him. 
Sir  Seymour  spoke  to  her  in  his  quiet,  rather  deep  voice,  and 
she  turned  towards  him,  and  as  she  did  so  she  felt  she  knew, 
as  she  had  never  known  before,  that  she  could  never  marry 
him,  that  something  in  her  that  was  of  her  essence  was  irre- 
vocably dedicated  to  youth  and  the  beauty  of  youth,  which 
is  like  no  other  beauty.  The  wildness  of  her  which  did  not 
die,  which  probably  would  never  die,  was  capable  of  trampling 
over  Sir  Seymour's  fidelity  to  get  to  unstable,  selfish  and 
careless  youth,  was  capable  of  casting  away  his  fidelity  for 
the  infidelity  of  youth.  As  she  met  her  host's  grave  eyes, 
she  sentenced  him  in  her  heart  to  eternal  watching  at  her  gate. 
She  could  not,  she  never  would  be  able  to,  let  him  into  the 
secret  room  where  she  was  really  at  home. 

During  lunch  she  now  and  then  glanced  towards  the  old 
woman  and  the  stranger.  They  evidently  knew  no  one,  for 
no  one  took  any  notice  of  them,  and  they  did  not  seem  to  be 
on  the  look  out  for  acquaintances.  Many  people  passed  by 
them,  entering  and  leaving  the  restaurant,  but  there  were  no 
glances  of  recognition,  no  greetings.  Only  some  of  the  women 
looked  at  the  young  man  as  if  struck,  or  almost  startled,  by 
his  good  looks.  Certainly  he  was  amazingly  handsome.  His 
brown  skin  suggested  the  sun ;  his  figure  athletic  exercises ;  the 
expression  of  his  face  audacity  and  complete  self-possession. 
Yet  there  was  in  his  large  eyes  a  look  of  almost  appealing 
gentleness,  as  if  he  were  seeking  something,  some  sympathy, 
some  affection,  perhaps,  which  he  needed  and  had  never  yet 
found.  Several  times  when  she  glanced  towards  him  with 
careful  casualness,  Lady  Sellingworth  found  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  her  with  this  no  doubt  unconsciously  appealing  expres- 
sion in  them.  She  knew  that  this  man  recognized  her  as  the 
woman  he  had  met  in  Bond  Street.  She  felt  positive  that 
for  some  reason  he  was  intent  upon  her,  that  he  was  deeply 


84  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

interested  in  her.  For  what  reason?  Her  woman's  vanity, 
leaping  eagerly  up  like  a  flame  that  had  been  damped  down 
for  a  time  but  that  now  was  being  coaxed  into  bright  burn- 
ing, told  her  that  there  could  be  only  one  reason.  Why  is 
a  handsome  young  man  interested  in  a  woman  whom  he  does 
not  know  and  has  only  met  casually  in  the  street?  The  mys- 
terious attraction  of  sex  supplied,  Lady  SelHngworth  thought, 
the  only  possible  answer.  She  had  not  been  able  to  attract 
Rupert  Louth,  but  she  attracted  this  man,  strongly,  romantically, 
perhaps.  The  knowledge — for  it  seemed  like  knowledge,  though 
it  was  really  only  surmise — warmed  her  whole  nature.  She 
felt  again  the  delicious  conquering  sensation  which  she  had 
lost.  She  emerged  out  of  humiliation.  Her  vivacity  grew  as 
the  lunch  progressed.  Suddenly  she  felt  good-looking,  fascinat- 
ing, even  brilliant.  The  horrible  dreariness  of  life  had  de- 
parted from  her,  driven  away  by  the  look  in  a  stranger's  eyes. 

Towards  the  end  of  lunch  the  woman  on  Sir  Seymour's 
other  side  said  to  him: 

"Do  you  know  who  that  man  is — the  young  man  opposite 
to  that  funny  South  American-looking  old  woman  with  the 
black  wig?" 

Sir  Seymour  looked  for  a  moment  at  the  brown  man  with 
his  cool,  direct,  summing-up,  soldier's  eyes. 

"No,"  he  answered.     "I've  never  set  eyes  on  him  before." 

"I  think  he  is  the  best-looking  man  I  have  ever  seen,"  said 
the  woman. 

"No  doubt — very  good-looking,  very  good-looking!"  said  her 
host ;  "but  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  line,  I  should  say." 

"The  wrong  side  of  the  line  ?    What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"The  shady  side,"  said  Sir  Seymour. 

And  then  he  turned  to  speak  to  Lady  SelHngworth. 

She  had  overheard  the  conversation,  and  felt  suddenly 
angry  with  him.  But  she  concealed  her  vexation  and  merely 
said  to  herself  that  men  are  as  jealous  of  each  other  as  women 
are  jealous,  that  a  man  cannot  bear  to  hear  another  man  praised 
by  a  woman.  Possibly — she  was  not  sure  of  this — possibly  Sir 
Seymour  had  noticed  that  she  was  interested  in  the  stranger. 
He  was  very  sharp  in  all  matters  connected  with  her.  His 
aflFection  increased  his  natural  acuteness.  She  resolved  to  be 
very  careful,  even  very  deceptive.    And  she  said: 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  86 

"Isn't  it  odd  how  good  looks,  good  manners  and  perfect 
clothes,  even  combined  with  charm,  cannot  conceal  the  fact 
that  a  man  is  an  outsider?" 

"Ah,  you  agree  with  me !"  Sir  Seymour  said,  looking  sud- 
denly pleased.  "That's  good!  Men  and  women  are  seldom 
at  one  on  such  matters." 

Lady  Sellingworth  shot  a  glance  at  the  man  discussed  and 
felt  absurdly  like  a  traitor. 

Soon  afterwards  Sir  Seymour's  lunch  party  broke  up. 

In  leaving  the  restaurant  Lady  Sellingworth  passed  so  close 
to  the  young  man  that  her  gown  almost  brushed  against  him. 
He  looked  up  at  her,  and  this  time  the  meaning  of  his  glance 
was  unmistakable.  It  said:  "I  want  to  know  you.  How 
can  I  get  to  know  you?" 

She  went  home  feeling  almost  excited.  On  the  hall  table 
of  her  house  she  found  a  note  from  Rupert  Louth  asking 
her  whether  she  would  help  "little  Bertha"  by  speaking  up 
for  her  to  a  certain  great  dressmaker,  who  had  apparently 
been  informed  of  the  Louths'  shaky  finances.  Louth's  obstinate 
reliance  on  her  as  a  devoted  friend  of  him  and  his  disdainfully- 
vulgar  young  wife  began  to  irritate  Lady  Sellingworth  almost 
beyond  endurance.  She  took  the  letter  up  with  her  into  the 
drawing-room,  and  sat  down  by  the  writing-table  holding  it 
in  her  hand.     It  had  come  at  a  dangerous  moment. 

Louth's  blindness  now  exasperated  her,  although  she  had 
desperately  done  her  best  to  close  his  eyes  to  the  real  nature 
of  her  feeling  for  him  and  to  the  unexpressed  intentions  she 
had  formed  concerning  him  and  had  been  forced  to  abandon. 
It  was  maddening  to  be  tacitly  rejected  as  a  possible  wife 
and  to  be  enthusiastically  claimed  as  a  self-sacrificing  friend. 
Surely  no  woman  born  of  woman  could  be  expected  to  stand 
it.  At  that  moment  Lady  Sellingworth  began  almost  to  hate 
Rupert  Louth. 

What  a  contrast  there  was  between  his  gross  misunderstand- 
ing of  her  and  the  brown  man's  understanding!  Already 
she  began  to  tell  herself  that  this  man  who  did  not  know 
her  nevertheless  in  some  subtle,  almost  occult,  way  had  a  clear 
understanding  of  her  present  need.  He  wanted  sympathy 
— his  eyes  said  that — but  he  had  sympathy  to  give.  She  be- 
gan to  hate  the  controlling  absurdities  of  civilization.    All  her 


86  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

wildness  seemed  to  rise  up  and  rush  to  the  surface.  How 
inhuman,  how  against  nature  it  was,  that  two  human  beings 
who  wished  to  know  each  other  should  be  held  back  from  such 
knowledge  by  mere  convention,  by  the  unwritten  law  of  the 
solemn  and  formal  introduction !  A  great  happiness  might  lie 
in  their  intercourse,  but  conventionality  solemnly  and  selfishly 
forbade  it,  unless  they  could  find  a  common  acquaintance  to 
mumble  a  few  unmeaning  words  over  them.  Mumbo-Jumbo ! 
What  a  fantastic  world  of  stupidly  obedient  puppets  this  world 
of  London  was!  She  said  to  herself  that  she  hated  it.  Then 
she  thought  of  her  first  widowhood  and  of  her  curious  year 
in  Paris. 

There  she  might  more  easily  have  made  the  acquaintance 
of  the  unknown  man  in  some  Bohemian  cafe,  where  people 
talked  to  each  other  casually,  giving  way  to  their  natural  im- 
pulses, drifting  in  and  out  as  the  whim  took  them,  careless 
of  the  convenances  or  actively  despising  them.  In  London, 
at  any  rate  if  one  is  English  and  cursed  by  being  well  known, 
one  lives  in  a  strait  waist-coat.  Lady  Sellingworth  felt  the 
impossibility  of  speaking  to  a  stranger  without  an  introduc- 
tion in  spite  of  her  secret  wildness. 

And  if  he  spoke  to  her? 

She  remembered  Sir  Seymour's  instant  judgment  on  him. 
It  had  made  her  feel  very  angry  at  the  time  when  it  was 
delivered,  but  then  she  had  not  held  any  mental  debate  about 
it.  She  had  simply  been  secretly  up  in  arms  against  an  attack 
on  the  man  she  was  interested  in.  Now  she  thought  about 
it  more  seriously. 

Although  she  had  never  been  able  to  love  Sir  Seymour,  she 
esteemed  him  very  highly  and  valued  his  friendship  very  much. 
She  also  respected  his  intellect  and  his  character.  He  was 
not  a  petty  man,  but  an  honest,  brave  and  far-seeing  man 
of  the  world.  Such  a  man's  opinion  was  certainly  worth 
something.  One  could  not  put  it  aside  as  if  it  were  the 
opinion  of  a  fool.  And  after  a  brief  glance  at  the  stranger 
Sir  Seymour  had  unhesitatingly  pronounced  him  to  be  an  out- 
sider. 

Was  he  an  outsider? 

As  a  rule  Lady  Sellingworth  was  swift  in  deciding  what 
was  the  social  status  of  a  man.     She  could  "place"  a  man 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  87 

as  quickly  as  any  woman.  But,  honestly,  she  could  not  make 
up  her  mind  about  the  stranger.  Although  he  was  so  ex- 
ceptionally good-looking,  perhaps,  he  was  not  exactly  dis- 
tinguished looking.  But  she  had  known  dukes  and  Cabinet 
Ministers  who  resembled  farmers  and  butlers,  young  men  of 
high  rank  who  had  the  appearance  of  grooms  or  bookies. 
It  was  difficult  to  be  sure  about  anyone  without  personal 
knowledge  of  him. 

When  she  had  first  seen  the  young  man  in  Bond  Street 
it  had  certainly  not  occurred  to  her  that  there  was  anything 
common  or  shady  in  his  appearance.  And  the  Duchess  of 
Wellingborough  had  not  hinted  that  she  held  such  an  opinion 
about  him.  And  surely  women  are  quicker  about  such  matters 
than  men. 

Lady  Sellingworth  decided  that  Seymour  Portman  was  preju- 
diced. Old  courtiers  are  apt  to  be  prejudiced.  Always  mix- 
ing with  the  most  distinguished  men  of  their  time,  they  acquire, 
perhaps  too  easily,  a  habit  of  looking  down  upon  ordinary 
but  quite  respectable  people. 

Here  Lady  Sellingworth  suddenly  smiled.  The  adjective 
"respectable"  certainly  did  not  fit  the  Bond  Street  young 
man.  He  looked  slightly  exotic !  That,  no  doubt,  had  set  Sir 
Seymour  against  him.  He  was  not  of  the  usual  type  of  club 
man.  He  "intrigued"  her  terribly.  As  the  Duchess  of  Welling- 
borough would  have  phrased  it,  she  was  "crazy"  to  know  him. 
She  even  said  to  herself  that  she  did  not  care  whether  he 
was  on  the  shady  side  of  the  line  or  not.  Abruptly  a  strong 
democratic  feeling  took  possession  of  her.  In  the  affections, 
in  the  passions,  differences  of  rank  did  not  count. 

Rupert  Louth  had  married  a  Crouch ! 

Lady  Sellingworth  looked  at  his  note  which  was  still  in 
her  hand,  and  memories  of  the  disdainful  young  beauty  "queen- 
ing it" — that  really  was  the  only  appropriate  expression — 
"queening  it"  with  vulgar  gentility  among  the  simple  mannered, 
well-bred  people  to  whom  Louth  belonged  rose  up  in  her  mind. 
How  terrible  were  those  definite  airs  of  being  a  lady!  How 
truly  unspeakable  were  those  august  condescensions  of  the 
undeniable  Crouch ! 

When  Lady  Sellingworth  mused  on  them  her  sense  of  the 
equality  before  God  of  all  human  creatures  decidedly  weakened. 


88  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

She  wrote  a  brief  letter  to  Louth  declining  to  "speak  up" 
to  the  great  dressmaker.  "Little  Bertha"  must  manage  without 
her  aid.  She  made  this  quite  clear,  but  she  wrote  very  charm- 
ingly, and  sent  her  love  at  the  end  to  little  Bertha.  That 
done,  almost  violently  she  dismissed  Louth  and  his  wife  from 
her  mind  and  became  democratic  again ! 

Putting  Louth  and  little  Bertha  aside,  when  it  came  to 
the  affections  and  the  passions  what  could  one  be  but  just 
a  human  being  ?  Rank  did  not  count  when  the  heart  was  awake. 
She  felt  intensely  human  just  then.  And  she  continued  to 
feel  so.  Life  was  quickened  for  her  by  the  presence  in  London 
of  a  stranger  whom  nobody  knew.  This  might  be  a  humiliat- 
ing fact.  But  how  many  facts  connected  with  human  beings 
if  sternly  considered  are  humiliating! 

And  nobody  knew  of  her  fact. 

Every  morning  at  this  time  she  woke  up  with  the  hope  of 
a  little  adventure  during  the  day.  When  she  went  out  she  was 
alive  to  the  possibility  of  a  new  encounter  with  the  unknown 
man.  And  she  met  him  several  times,  walking  about  town, 
sometimes  alone,  sometimes  with  the  old  lady,  and  once  with 
another  man,  a  thin  sallow  individual  who  looked  like  a  French- 
man. And  each  time  he  sent  her  a  glance  which  seemed  almost 
to  implore  her  to  know  him. 

But  how  could  she  know  him  ?  She  never  met  him  in  society. 
Evidently  he  knew  no  one  whom  she  knew.  She  began  to 
be  intensely  irritated  by  her  leaping  desire  which  was  con- 
stantly thwarted.  That  this  man  was  in  love  with  her  and 
longing  to  know  her  she  now  firmly  believed.  She  wished 
to  know  him.  She  wished  it  more  than  she  wished  for  any- 
thing else  in  the  world  just  then.  But  the  gulf  of  conventionality 
yawned  between  them,  and  there  seemed  no  likelihood  of 
its  ever  being  bridged.  Sometimes  she  condemned  the  man 
for  not  being  adventurous,  for  not  taking  his  courage  in 
both  hands  and  speaking  to  her  without  an  introduction.  At 
other  times  she  told  herself  that  his  not  doing  this  proved 
him  to  be  a  gentleman,  in  spite  of  what  Sir  Seymour  Port- 
man  had  thought  of  him.  In  defiance  of  his  longing  to  know 
her  he  would  not  insult  her. 

But  if  he  only  knew  how  she  was  pining  for  the  insult! 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  89 

And  yet  if  he  had  spoken  to  her  perhaps  she  would  have 
been  angry. 

She  discovered  eventually  that  he  was  staying  at  the  Carl- 
ton Hotel,  for  one  day  when  she  was  going  past  the  bureau 
there  with  a  friend  on  her  way  to  the  restaurant  she  saw 
him  with  a  key  in  his  hand — evidently  the  key  of  his  room. 
That  same  day  she  heard  him  speak  for  the  first  time.  After 
lunch,  when  she  was  in  the  Palm  Court,  he  came  and  stood 
quite  close  to  where  she  was  sitting.  The  thin,  sallow  in- 
dividual was  with  him.  They  lighted  cigars  and  looked  about 
them.  And  presently  she  heard  them  talking  in  French.  The 
thin  man  said  something  which  she  did  not  catch.  In  reply 
the  other  said,  speaking  very  distinctly,  almost  loudly: 

*T  shall  go  over  to  Paris  on  Thursday  morning  next.  I  shall 
stay  at  the  Ritz  Hotel." 

That  was  all  Lady  Sellingworth  heard.  He  had  intended 
her  to  hear  it.  She  was  certain  of  that.  For  immediately  after- 
wards he  glanced  at  her  and  then  moved  away,  like  a  man 
who  has  carried  out  an  intention  and  can  relax  and  be  idle. 
He  sat  down  by  a  table  a  little  way  off,  and  a  waiter  brought 
coffee  for  him  and  his  companion. 

His  voice,  when  he  spoke  the  few  words,  had  sounded  agree- 
able. His  French  was  excellent,  but  he  had  a  slight  foreign 
accent  which  Lady  Sellingworth  had  at  once  detected. 

Paris !    He  was  going  to  Paris  on  Thursday ! 

She  was  quite  positive  that  he  had  wished  her  to  know  that. 
Why? 

There  could  be  only  one  reason.  She  guessed  that  he  had 
become  as  fiercely  irritated  by  their  situation  as  she  was, 
that  he  was  tempting  her  to  break  away  and  to  do  something 
definite,  that  he  wanted  her  to  leave  London.  She  still  had 
her  apartment  in  Paris.  Could  he  know  that?  Could  he 
have  seen  her  in  Paris  without  her  knowledge  and  have  followed 
her  to  London? 

She  began  to  feel  really  excited,  and  there  was  something 
almost  youthful  in  her  excitement.  Yet  she  was  on  the  eve 
of  a  horrible  passing.  For  that  day  was  her  last  day  in  the 
forties.  On  the  following  morning  she  would  wake  up  a 
woman  of  fifty. 

While  the  two  men  were  still  having  their  coffee  Lady  Selling- 


90  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

worth  and  her  friend  got  up  to  go  away.  As  her  tall  figure 
disappeared  the  brown  man  whispered  something  to  his  com- 
panion and  they  both  smiled.  Then  they  continued  talking  in 
very  low  voices,  and  not  in  French. 

Paris!  All  the  rest  of  that  day  Lady  Sellingworth  thought 
about  Paris!  Already  it  stood  for  a  great  deal  in  her  life. 
Was  it  perhaps  going  to  stand  for  much  more?  In  Paris  long 
ago — she  wished  it  were  not  so  long  ago — she  had  tasted  a 
curious  freedom,  had  given  herself  to  her  wildness,  had  en- 
larged her  boundaries.  And  now  Paris  called  her  again,  called 
her  through  the  voice  of  this  man  whom  she  did  not  yet 
know. 

Deliberately  that  day  he  had  summoned  her  to  Paris.  She 
had  no  doubt  about  that.  And  if  she  went?  He  must  have 
some  quite  definite  intention  connected  with  his  wish  for  her 
to  go.    It  could  only  be  a  romantic  intention. 

And  yet  to-morrow  she  would  be  fifty! 

He  was  quite  young.  He  could  not  be  more  than  five-and- 
twenty. 

For  a  moment  her  imp  spoke  loudly  in  her  ear.  He  told 
her  that  by  this  time  she  must  have  learnt  her  lesson,  that  it 
was  useless  to  pretend  that  she  had  not,  that  Rupert  Louth's 
marriage  had  taught  her  all  that  she  needed  to  know,  and 
that  now  she  must  realize  that  the  time  for  adventures,  for 
romance,  for  the  secret  indulgence  of  the  passions,  was  in 
her  case  irrevocably  over.  "Fifty !  Fifty !  Fifty !"  he  knelled 
in  her  ears.  And  there  were  obscure  voices  within  her  which 
backed  him  up,  faintly,  as  if  half  afraid,  agreeing  with  him. 

She  listened.  She  could  not  help  listening,  though  she  hated 
it.  And  for  a  moment  she  was  almost  inclined  to  submit  to 
the  irony  of  the  imp,  to  trample  upon  her  desire,  and  to  grasp 
hands  once  and  for  all  with  her  self-respect. 

The  imp  said  to  her:  "If  you  go  to  Paris  you  will  be 
making  a  fool  of  yourself.  That  man  doesn't  really  want  you 
to  go.  He  is  only  a  mischievous  boy  amusing  himself  at  your 
expense.  Perhaps  he  has  made  a  bet  with  that  friend  of  his 
that  you  will  cross  on  the  same  day  that  he  does.  You  are  far 
too  old  for  adventures.  Look  in  the  glass  and  see  yourself 
as  you  really  are.  Remember  your  folly  with  Rupert  Louth, 
and  this  time  try  to  be  wise." 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  91 

But  something  else  in  her,  the  persistent  vanity,  perhaps, 
of  a  once  very  beautiful  woman,  told  her  that  her  attraction 
was  not  dead,  and  that  if  she  obeyed  her  imp  she  would  simply 
be  throwing  away  the  chance  of  a  great  joy.  Once  again 
her  thoughts  went  to  marriage.  Once  again  she  dreamed  of 
a  youn£  man  falling  romantically  in  love  with  her,  and  of 
taking  him  into  her  life,  and  of  making  his  life  wonderful 
by  her  influence  and  her  connexions. 

Once  again  she  was  driven  by  her  wildness. 

The  end  of  it  was  that  she  summoned  her  maid  and  told 
her  that  they  were  going  over  to  Paris  for  a  few  days  on  the 
following  Thursday.  The  maid  was  not  surprised.  She  sup- 
posed that  my  lady  wanted  some  new  gowns.  She  asked,  and 
was  told,  what  to  pack. 

Now  Lady  Sellingworth,  as  all  her  friends  and  many  others 
knew,  possessed  an  extremely  valuable  collection  of  jewels,  and 
seldom,  or  never,  moved  far  without  taking  a  part  of  the 
collection  with  her.  She  loved  jewels,  and  usually  wore  them 
in  the  evening,  and  as  she  was  often  seen  in  public — at  the  opera 
and  elsewhere — her  diamonds,  emeralds,  sapphires  and  pearls 
had  often  been  admired,  and  perhaps  longed  for,  by  strangers. 

When  she  went  to  Paris  on  this  occasion  she  took  a  jewel- 
case  with  her.  In  it  there  were  perhaps  fifty  thousand  pounds' 
worth  of  gems.  Her  maid,  a  woman  who  had  been  with  her 
for  years,  was  in  charge  of  the  case  except  when  Lady  Selling- 
worth  was  actually  in  the  train.  Then  Lady  Sellingworth  had 
it  with  her  in  a  reserved  first-class  carriage  for  the  whole  of 
which  she  paid. 

The  journey  was  not  eventful.  But  to  Lady  Sellingworth 
it  was  an  adventure. 

The  brown  man  was  on  the  train  with  his  thin,  sardonic 
friend,  and  with  the  old  woman  Lady  Sellingworth  had  seen 
with  him  in  London. 

The  sight  of  this  party — she  saw  them  stepping  into  the 
Pullman  car  as  she  was  going  to  her  reserved  carriage — 
surprised  her.  She  had  expected  that  the  stranger  would 
travel  alone.  As  she  sat  down  in  her  corner  facing  the  engine, 
with  the  jewel-case  on  the  seat  next  to  her,  she  felt  an  obscure 
irritation.  A  man  in  search  of  adventure  does  not  usually 
take  two  people — one  of  them  an  old  woman  in  a  black  wig 


92  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

— with  him  when  he  sets  out  on  his  travels.  A  trio  banishes 
romance.    And  how  can  a  woman  be  thrilled  by  a  family  party  ? 

For  a  moment  Lady  Sellingworth  felt  anger  against  the 
stranger.  For  a  moment  she  wished  she  had  not  undertaken 
the  journey.  It  occurred  to  her  that  perhaps  she  had  made 
a  humiliating  mistake  when  she  thought  that  the  brown  man 
wished,  and  intended,  her  to  go  to  Paris  because  he  was 
going.  Her  pride  was  alarmed.  She  saw  plainly  for  a  moment 
the  mud  into  which  vanity  had  led  her,  and  she  longed  to 
get  out  of  the  train  and  to  remain  in  London.  But  how  could 
she  account  to  her  maid  for  such  a  sudden  change  of  plans? 
What  could  she  say  to  her  household?  She  knew,  of  course, 
that  she  owed  them  no  explanation.  But  still — and-her  friends  ? 
She  had  told  everybody  that  she  was  going  to  Paris.  They 
would  think  her  crazy  for  giving  up  the  journey  after  she  was 
actually  in  the  train.  And  she  had  seen  two  or  three  acquaint- 
ances on  the  platform.  No;  she  must  make  the  journey  now. 
It  was  too  late  to  give  it  up.  But  she  wished  intensely  she 
had  not  undertaken  it. 

At  the  moment  of  this  wish  of  hers,  coming  from  the  Pull- 
man, the  brown  man  walked  slowly  by  on  the  platform,  alone. 
His  eyes  were  searching  the  train  with  keen  attention.  But 
Lady  Sellingworth  happened  to  be  leaning  back,  and  he  did 
not  see  her.  She  knew  he  was  looking  for  her.  He  went 
on  out  of  her  sight.  She  sat  still  in  her  corner,  and  presently 
saw  him  coming  back.  This  time  he  saw  her,  and  did  some- 
thing which  for  the  moment  startled  her.  On  the  window 
of  the  carriage,  next  the  seat  opposite  to  hers,  was  pasted  a 
label  with  "Reserved"  printed  on  it  in  big  letters.  Underneath 
was  written :  "For  the  Countess  of  Sellingworth."  When  the 
man  saw  Lady  Sellingworth  in  her  corner  he  gave  no  sign 
of  recognition,  but  he  took  out  of  the  breast  pocket  of  his 
travelling  coat  a  pocket-book,  went  deliberately  up  to  the  win- 
dow, looked  hard  at  the  label,  and  then  wrote  something — 
her  name,  no  doubt — in  his  book.  This  done,  he  put  the  book 
back  in  his  pocket  and  walked  gravely  away  without  glancing 
at  her  again. 

And  now  Lady  Sellingworth  no  longer  regretted  that  she 
was  going  to  Paris.  What  the  man  had  just  done  had  re- 
assured her.     It  was  now  evident  to  her  that  the  first  time 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  93 

they  had  met  in  Bond  Street  he  had  not  known  who  she  was 
or  anything  about  her.  He  must  simply  have  been  struck 
by  her  beauty,  and  from  that  moment  had  wished  to  know 
her.  Ever  since  then  he  must  have  been  longing  to  know  who 
she  was.  The  fact  that  he  had  evidently  not  discovered  her 
name  till  he  had  read  it  on  the  label  pasted  on  the  railway 
carriage  window  convinced  her  that,  in  spite  of  his  boldness 
in  showing  her  his  feelings,  he  was  a  scrupulous  man.  A  care- 
less man  could  certainly  have  found  out  who  she  was  at  the 
Carlton,  by  asking  a  waiter.  Evidently  he  had  not  chosen 
to  do  that.  The  omission  showed  delicacy,  refinement  of  nature. 
It  pleased  her.  It  made  her  feel  safe.  She  felt  that  the  man 
was  a  gentleman,  one  who  could  respect  a  woman.  Sir  Seymour 
had  been  wrong  in  his  hasty  judgment.  An  outsider  would  not 
have  behaved  in  such  a  way.  That  the  stranger  had  de- 
liberately taken  down  her  name  in  his  book  while  she  was 
watching  him  did  not  displease  her  at  all.  He  wished  her 
to  know  of  his  longing,  but  he  was  evidently  determined  to 
keep  it  hidden  from  others. 

She  felt  now  in  the  very  heart  of  a  romantic  adventure, 
and  thrilled  with  excitement  about  the  future.  What  would 
happen  when  they  all  got  to  Paris?  It  was  evident  to  her 
now  that  he  did  not  know  she  had  an  apartment  there — unless, 
indeed,  he  had  first  seen  her  in  Paris  and  had,  perhaps,  followed 
her  to  London !  But  even  if  that  were  so  it  was  unlikely 
that  he  knew  where  she  lived. 

In  any  case  she  knew  he  was  going  to  the  Ritz. 

The  train  flew  on  towards  the  sea  while  she  mused  over 
possibihties  and  imagined  events  in  Paris. 

She  knew  now,  of  course,  that  the  stranger  was  absolutely 
out  of  her  world.  His  ignorance  proved  to  her  that  he  could 
not  be  in  any  society  she  moved  in.  She  guessed  that  he 
was  some  charming  young  man  from  a  distance,  come  to  Europe 
perhaps  for  the  first  time — some  ardent  youth  from  Brazil,  from 
Peru,  from  Mexico !  The  guess  gave  colour  to  the  adventure. 
He  knew  her  name  now.  She  wondered  what  his  name  was. 
And  she  wondered  about  the  old  woman  in  the  wig  and  about 
the  sardonic  friend.  In  what  relation  did  the  three  people  stand 
to  each  other? 


94  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

She  could  not  divine.  But  she  thought  that  perhaps  the 
old  woman  was  the  mother  of  the  man  she  wished  to  know. 

She  had  a  private  cabin  on  the  boat.  It  was  on  the  top  deck. 
But,  as  the  weather  was  fine  and  the  sea  fairly  calm,  her  maid 
occupied  it  with  the  jewel-case,  while  she  sat  in  the  open  on  a 
deck  chair,  well  wrapped  up  in  a  fur  rug.  Presently  an 
acquaintance,  a  colonel  in  the  Life  Guards,  joined  her,  estab- 
lished himself  in  a  chair  at  her  side,  and  kept  her  busy  with  con- 
versation. 

When  the  ship  drew  out  into  the  Channel  several  men  began 
to  pace  up  and  down  the  deck  with  the  sturdy  determination 
of  good  sailors  resolved  upon  getting  health  from  the  salt 
briskness  of  the  sea.  Among  them  were  the  two  men  of  the 
trio.    The  old  woman  had  evidently  gone  into  hiding. 

As  Lady  Sellingworth  conversed  with  her  colonel  she  made 
time,  as  a  woman  can,  for  a  careful  and  detailed  consideration 
of  the  man  on  whom  her  thoughts  were  concentrated.  Although 
he  did  not  look  at  her  as  he  passed  up  and  down  the  deck,  she 
knew  that  he  had  seen  where  she  was  sitting.  And,  without 
letting  the  colonel  see  what  she  was  doing,  she  followed  the 
tall,  athletic  figure  in  the  long,  rough,  greenish-brown  overcoat 
with  her  eyes,  looking  away  when  it  drew  very  near  to  her. 
And  now  and  then  she  looked  at  its  companion. 

In  the  Paris  rapide  she  was  again  alone  in  a  carriage  reserved 
for  her.  She  did  not  go  into  the  restaurant  to  lunch,  as  she 
hated  eating  in  a  crowd.  Instead,  her  maid  brought  her  a 
luncheon  basket  which  had  been  supplied  by  the  chef  in 
Berkeley  Square.  After  eating  she  smoked  a  cigarette  and  read 
the  French  papers  which  she  had  bought  at  the  Calais  station. 
And  then  she  sat  still  and  looked  out  of  the  window,  and 
thought  and  dreamed  and  wondered  and  desired. 

Although  she  did  not  know  it,  she  was  living  through  almost 
the  last  of  those  dreams  which  are  the  rightful  property  of 
youth,  but  which  sometimes,  obstinate  and  deceitful,  haunt 
elderly  minds,  usually  to  their  undoing. 

The  light  began  to  fade  and  the  dream  to  become  more  actual. 
She  lived  again  as  she  had  lived  in  the  days  when  she  was  a 
reigning  beauty,  when  there  was  no  question  of  her  having  to 
seek  for  the  joys  and  the  adventures  of  life.  In  the  twilight 
of  France  she  reigned. 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  95 

A  shadow  passed  by  in  the  corridor.  She  had  scarcely  seen 
it.  Rather  she  had  felt  its  passing.  But  the  dream  was  gone. 
She  was  alert,  tense,  expectant.  Paris  was  near.  And  he  was 
near.  She  linked  the  two  together  in  her  mind.  And  she  felt 
that  she  was  drawing  close  to  a  climax  in  her  life.  A  con- 
viction took  hold  of  her  that  some  big,  some  determining  event 
was  going  to  happen  in  Paris,  that  she  would  return  to  London 
different — a  changed  woman. 

Happiness  changes !  She  was  travelling  in  search  of  hap- 
piness. The  wild  blood  in  her  leaped  at  the  thought  of  grasp- 
ing happiness.  And  she  felt  reckless.  She  would  dare  all, 
would  do  anything,  if  only  she  might  capture  happiness.  Dig- 
nity, self-respect,  propriety,  the  conventions — what  value  had 
they  really  ?  To  bow  down  to  them — does  that  bring  happiness? 
Out  of  the  way  with  them,  and  a  straight  course  for  the  human 
satisfaction  which  comes  only  in  following  the  dictates  of  the 
nature  one  is  born  with! 

Lights  twinkled  here  and  there  in  the  gloom.  Again  the 
shadow  passed  in  the  corridor.  A  moment  later  Lady  Selling- 
worth's  maid  appeared  to  take  charge  of  the  jewel-case. 

The  crowd  at  the  Gare  du  Nord  was  great,  and  the  station 
was  badly  lit.  Lady  Sellingworth  did  not  see  her  reason  for 
coming  to  Paris.  A  carriage  was  waiting  for  her.  She  got  into 
it  with  her  jewel-case,  and  drove  away  to  her  apartment,  leaving 
her  maid  to  follow  with  the  luggage. 

In  the  evening  she  dined  alone,  and  she  went  to  bed  early. 

She  had  made  no  engagements  in  Paris;  had  not  told  any 
of  her  friends  there  that  she  was  going  to  be  there  for  some 
days.  She  had  no  wish  to  go  into  society.  Her  wish  was  to 
be  perfectly  free.  But  as  she  lay  in  bed  in  her  pretty,  familiar 
room,  she  began  to  wonder  what  she  was  going  to  do.  She 
had  come  to  Paris  suddenly,  driven  by  an  intense  caprice, 
without  making  any  plans,  without  even  deciding  how  long  she 
was  going  to  stay.  She  had  imagined  that  in  loneliness  she 
would  keep  a  hold  on  liberty.  But  now  she  began  to  wonder 
about  things. 

Even  her  secret  wildness  did  not  tell  her  that  she  could  "knock 
about"  in  Paris  like  a  man.  For  one  thing  she  was  far  too 
well  known  for  that.    Many  people  might  recognize  her.    When 


96  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

she  had  been  much  younger  she  had  certainly  been  to  all 
sorts  of  odd  places,  and  had  had  a  wonderful  time.  But  some- 
how, with  the  passing  of  the  years,  she  had  learnt  to  pay  some 
attention  to  the  imp  within  her,  though  there  were  moments 
when  she  defied  him.  And  he  told  her  that  she  simply  could 
not  now  do  many  of  the  daring  things  which  she  had  done 
when  she  was  a  brilliant  and  lovely  young  woman.  Besides, 
what  would  be  the  use?  Almost  suddenly  she  realized  the 
difficulty  of  her  situation. 

She  could  not  very  well  go  about  Paris  alone.  And  yet  to 
go  about  in  company  must  inevitably  frustrate  the  only  purpose 
which  had  brought  her  to  Paris.  She  had  come  there  with  an 
almost  overwhelming  desire,  but  with  no  plan  for  its  realization. 

But  surely  he  had  a  plan.  He  must  certainly  have  one  if, 
as  she  still  believed,  in  spite  of  the  trio,  he  had  meant  her 
to  come  to  Paris  when  he  did.  She  wondered  intensely  what 
his  plan  was.  He  looked  very  determined,  audacious  even, 
in  spite  of  the  curious  and  almost  pleading  softness  of  his  eyes, 
a  softness  which  had  haunted  her  imagination  ever  since  she 
had  first  seen  him.  She  felt  convinced  that,  once  thoroughly 
roused,  he  would  be  a  man  who  would  stick  at  very  little, 
perhaps  at  nothing,  in  carrying  out  a  design  he  had  formed. 
His  design  was  surely  to  make  her  acquaintance,  and  to  make 
it  in  Paris.  Yet  he  had  come  over  with  two  people,  while 
she  had  come  alone.  What  was  he  going  to  do?  She  longed 
to  know  his  plan.  She  wished  to  conform  to  it.  Yet  how 
could  she  do  that  in  total  ignorance  of  what  his  plan  was? 
Perhaps  he  knew  her  address  and  would  communicate  with 
her.  But  that  morning  he  had  not  even  known  her  name !  She 
felt  excited  but  puzzled.  As  the  night  grew  late  she  told  her- 
self that  she  must  cease  from  thinking  and  try  to  sleep.  She 
must  leave  the  near  future  in  the  lap  of  the  gods.  But  she 
could  not  make  her  mind  a  blank.  Over  and  over  again  she 
revolved  the  matter  which  obsessed  her  in  her  mind.  Almost 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  ardently  wished  she  were  a 
man,  able  to  take  the  initiative  in  any  matter  of  love. 

The  clocks  of  Paris  were  striking  three  before  at  last  she  fell 
asleep. 

When  she  woke  in  the  morning  late  and  had  had  her  coffee 
she  did  not  know  how  she  was  going  to  spend  the  day.   She  felt 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  97 

full  of  anticipation,  excited,  yet  vague,  and  unusually  lonely. 
The  post  brought  her  nothing.  About  noon  she  was  dressed 
and  ready  for  the  day.  She  must  go  out,  of  course.  It  would 
be  folly  to  remain  shut  up  indoors  after  all  the  bother  of  the 
journey.  She  must  lunch  somewhere,  do  something  afterwards. 
There  was  a  telephone  in  her  bedroom.  She  knew  lots  of 
people  in  Paris.  She  might  telephone  to  someone  to  join  her  at 
lunch  at  the  Ritz  or  somewhere.  Afterwards  they  might  go 
to  a  matinee  or  to  a  concert.  But  she  was  afraid  of  getting 
immersed  in  engagements,  of  losing  her  freedom.  She  thought 
over  her  friends  and  acquaintances  in  Paris.  Which  of  them 
would  be  the  safest  to  communicate  with?  Which  would  be 
most  useful  to  her,  and  would  trouble  her  least?  Finally 
she  decided  on  telephoning  to  a  rich  American  spinster  whom 
she  had  known  for  years,  a  woman  who  was  what  is  called 
"large  minded,"  who  was  very  tolerant,  very  understanding, 
and  not  more  curious  than  a  woman  has  to  be.  Caroline  Briggs 
could  comprehend  a  hint  without  demanding  facts  to  explain  it. 

She  telephoned  to  Caroline  Briggs.  Miss  Briggs  was  at  home 
and  replied,  expressing  pleasure  and  readiness  to  lunch  with 
Lady  Sellingworth  anywhere.  After  a  moment's  hesitation 
Lady  Sellingworth  suggested  the  Ritz.  Miss  Briggs  agreed 
that  the  Ritz  would  be  the  best  place. 

They  met  at  the  Ritz  at  one  o'clock. 

Miss  Briggs,  a  small,  dark,  elderly  and  animated  person, 
immensely  rich  and  full  of  worldly  wisdom,  wondered  why 
Lady  Sellingworth  had  come  over  to  Paris,  was  told  "clothes," 
and  smilingly  accepted  the  explanation.  She  knew  Lady  Sell- 
ingworth very  well,  and,  being  extremely  sharp  and  intuitive, 
realized  at  once  that  clothes  had  nothing  to  do  with  this  sud- 
den visit.    A  voice  within  her  said :  "It's  a  man !" 

And  presently  the  man  came  into  the  restaurant,  accom- 
panied by  the  eternal  old  woman  in  the  black  wig. 

Now  Caroline  Briggs  had  an  enormous  and  cosmopolitan 
acquaintance.  She  was  the  sort  of  woman  who  knows  wealthy 
Greeks,  Egyptian  pashas,  Turkish  princesses,  and  wonderful 
exotic  personages  from  Brazil,  Persia,  Central  America  and 
the  Indies.  She  gave  parties  which  were  really  romantic,  which 
had  a  flavour,  as  someone  had  said,  of  the  novels  of  Ouida 
brought  thoroughly  up  to  date.     Lady  Sellingworth  had  been 


98  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

to  some  of  them,  and  had  not  forgotten  them.  And  it  had 
occurred  to  her  that  if  anyone  she  knew  was  acquainted  with 
the  brown  man,  that  person  might  be  Carohne  Briggs.  She 
had,  therefore,  come  to  the  Ritz  with  a  faint  hope  in  her  mind. 

Miss  Briggs  happened  to  be  seated  with  her  smart  back  to 
the  man  and  old  woman  when  they  entered  the  restaurant, 
and  they  sat  down  at  a  table  behind  her,  but  in  full  view  of  Lady 
Sellingworth,  who  wished  to  draw  her  companion's  attention 
to  them,  but  who  also  was  reluctant  to  show  any  interest 
in  them.  She  knew  that  Miss  Briggs  knew  a  great  deal  about 
her,  and  she  did  not  mind  that.  But  nevertheless,  she  felt 
at  this  moment  a  certain  pudcur  which  was  almost  like  the 
pudetir  of  a  girl.  Had  it  come  to  her  with  her  entrance  into 
the  fifties?  Or  was  it  a  cruel  gift  from  her  imp?  She  was 
not  sure;  but  she  could  not  persuade  herself  to  draw  Miss 
Briggs's  attention  to  the  people  who  interested  her  until  the 
bill  was  presented  and  it  was  almost  time  to  leave  the  res- 
taurant. 

Then  at  last  she  could  keep  silence  no  longer,  and  she 
said: 

"The  people  one  sees  in  Paris  seem  to  become  more  and 
more  extraordinary !     Many  of  them  one  can't  place  at  all." 

Miss  Briggs,  who  had  lived  in  Paris  for  quite  thirty  years, 
remarked : 

"Do  you  think  they  are  more  extraordinary  than  the  people 
one  sees  about  London?" 

"Yes,  really  I  do.  That  old  woman  in  the  black  wig  over 
there,  for  instance,  intrigues  me.  Where  can  she  come  from? 
Who  can  she  be?" 

Miss  Briggs  looked  carelessly  round,  and  at  once  understood 
the  reason  of  Lady  Sellingworth's  remarks.  "The  man"  was 
before  her,  and  she  knew  it.  How  ?  She  could  not  have  said. 
Had  she  been  asked  she  would  probably  have  replied:  "My 
bones  told  me." 

"Oh,"  she  said,  after  the  look.  "She's  the  type  of  old  woman 
who  is  born  and  brought  up  in  Brazil,  and  who,  when  she 
is  faded,  comes  to  European  spas  for  her  health.  I  have  met 
many  of  her  type  at  Aix  and  Baden  Baden." 

"Ah!"  replied  Lady  Sellingworth  carelessly.  "You  don't 
know  her  then?" 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  99 

"No.  But  I  have  seen  her  two  or  three  times  within  the 
last  few  months — three  times  to  be  exact.  Twice  she  has 
travelled  in  the  same  train  as  I  was  in,  though  not  in  the  same 
compartment,  and  once  I  saw  her  dining  here.  Each  time  she 
was  with  that  marvellously  handsome  young  man.  I  really 
noticed  her — don't  blame  me — because  of  him." 

"Perhaps  he's  her  son." 

"He  may  be  her  husband." 

"Oh — but  the  difference  in  their  ages !  She  must  be  seventy 
at  least,  if  not  more." 

"She  may  be  very  rich,  too,"  said  Miss  Briggs  dryly. 

Lady  Sellingworth  remembered  that  it  was  always  said  that 
Miss  Briggs's  enormous  fortune  had  kept  her  a  spinster.  She 
was  generally  supposed  to  be  one  of  those  unfortunately  cynical 
millionairesses  who  are  unable  to  believe  in  man's  disinter- 
ested affection. 

"Shall  we  go?"  said  Lady  Sellingworth. 

Miss  Briggs  assented,  and  they  left  the  restaurant. 

They  spent  the  afternoon  together  at  a  matinee  at  the  Opera 
Comique,  and  afterwards  Miss  Briggs  came  to  tea  at  Lady 
Sellingworth's  apartment.  Not  another  word  had  been  said 
about  the  two  strangers,  but  Lady  Sellingworth  fully  realized 
that  Caroline  Briggs  had  found  her  out.  When  her  friend 
finally  got  up  to  go  she  asked  Lady  Sellingworth  how  long 
she  intended  to  stay  in  Paris. 

"Oh,  only  a  day  or  two,"  Lady  Sellingworth  said.  "I've  got 
to  see  two  or  three  dressmakers.  Then  I  shall  be  oflF.  I  haven't 
told  anyone  that  I  am  here.    It  didn't  seem  worth  while." 

"And  you  won't  be  dull  all  alone?" 

"Oh,  no,  I  am  never  dull.  I  love  two  or  three  days  of  com- 
plete rest  now  and  then.  One  isn't  made  of  cast  iron,  although 
some  people  seem  to  think  one  is,  or  at  any  rate  ought  to  be." 

There  was  a  tired  sound  in  her  voice  as  she  said  this,  and 
Miss  Briggs's  small  and  sharp,  but  kind,  eyes  examined  her 
face  rather  critically.     But  Miss  Briggs  only  said : 

"Come  and  dine  with  me  to-morrow  night  in  my  house.  I 
shall  be  quite  alone." 

"Thank  you,  Caroline." 

She  spoke  rather  doubtfully  and  paused.  But  finally  she 
said: 


100  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

"I  will,  with  pleasure.    What  time?" 

"Half-past  eight." 

When  Miss  Briggs  had  gone  Lady  SelHngworth  gave  way 
to  an  almost  desperate  fit  of  despondency.  She  felt  ashamed 
of  herself,  like  a  sensitive  person  found  out  in  some  ugly 
fault.  She  sat  down,  and  almost  for  the  first  time  in  her  life 
mentally  she  wrestled  with  herself. 

Something,  she  did  not  quite  know  what,  in  Caroline  Briggs's 
look,  or  manner,  or  surmised  mental  attitude  that  day,  had 
gone  home  to  her.  And  that  remark,  "He  may  be  her  hus- 
band," followed  by,  "she  may  be  very  rich,  too,"  had  dropped 
upon  her  like  a  stone. 

It  had  never  occurred  to  her  that  the  old  woman  in  the 
wig  might  be  the  young  man's  wife.  But  she  now  realized 
that  it  was  quite  possible. 

She  had  always  known,  since  she  had  known  Caroline,  that 
her  friend  was  one  of  those  few  women  who  are  wholly 
free  from  illusions.  Miss  Briggs  had  not  only  never  fallen  into 
follies;  she  had  avoided  natural  joys.  She  had  perhaps  even 
been  the  slave  of  her  self-respect.  Never  at  all  good-looking, 
though  certainly  not  ugly,  she  had  been  afraid  of  the  effect 
of  her  wealth  upon  men.  And  because  she  was  so  rich  she 
had  never  chosen  to  marry.  She  was  possibly  too  much  of  a 
cynic,  but  she  had  always  preserved  her  personal  dignity. 
No  one  had  ever  legitimately  laughed  at  her,  and  no  one  had 
ever  had  the  chance  of  contemptuously  pitying  her.  She  must 
have  missed  a  great  deal,  but  now  in  middle-age  she  was  sur- 
rounded by  friends  who  respected  her. 

That  was  something. 

And — Lady  SelHngworth  was  sure  of  it — Caroline  was  not 
ravaged  by  the  Furies  who  attack  "foolish"  middle-aged  women. 

What  did  Caroline  Briggs  think  of  her?  What  must  she 
think  ? 

Caroline  knew  well  nearly  all  the  members  of  the  "old  guard," 
and  most  of  them  were  fond  of  her.  She  had  never  got  in 
any  woman's  way  with  a  man,  and  she  was  never  condemnatory. 
So  among  women  she  was  a  very  popular  woman.  Many 
people  confided  in  her.  Lady  SelHngworth  had  never  done 
this.     But  now  she  wished  that  she  could  bring  herself   to 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  101 

do  it.  Caroline  must  certainly  know  her  horribly  well.  Perhaps 
she  could  be  helped  by  Caroline. 

She  needed  help,  for  she  was  abominably  devoid  of  moral 
courage. 

She  did  not  quite  know  why  at  this  particular  moment  she 
was  overwhelmed  by  a  feeling  of  degradation;  she  only  knew 
that  she  was  overwhelmed.  She  felt  ashamed  of  being  in 
Paris.  She  even  compared  herself  with  the  horrible  old  woman 
in  the  wig,  who,  perhaps,  had  bought  the  brown  man  as  she 
might  have  bought  a  big  Newfoundland  dog. 

Fifty  !  Fifty !  Fifty !  It  knelled  in  her  ears.  Caroline  saw 
her  as  a  woman  of  fifty.  Perhaps  everyone  really  saw  her 
so.  And  yet — why  had  the  man  given  her  that  strange  look 
in  Bond  Street?  Why  had  he  wished  her  to  come  to  Paris? 
She  tried,  with  a  really  unusual  sincerity,  to  find  some  other 
reason  than  the  reason  which  had  delighted  her  vanity.  But 
she  failed.     Sincerely  she  failed. 

And  yet — was  it  possible? 

She  thought  of  giving  up,  of  becoming  like  Caroline.  It 
would  be  a  great  rest.  But  how  empty  her  life  would  be. 
Caroline's  life  was  a  habit.  But  such  a  life  for  her  would 
be  an  absolute  novelty.  No  doubt  Caroline's  reward  had  come 
to  her  in  middle-age.  Middle-age  was  bringing  something 
to  her,  Adela  Sellingworth,  which  was  certainly  not  a  reward. 
One  got  what  one  earned.  That  was  certain.  And  she  had 
earned  wages  which  she  dreaded  having  paid  to  her. 

She  had  a  good  brain,  and  she  realized  that  if  she  had  the 
moral  courage  to  make  a  tremendous  effort  and  to  take  a 
drastic  course  she  might — it  was  possible — be  rewarded  by 
a  peace  of  mind  such  as  she  had  never  yet  known.  She  was 
able  as  it  were  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  future  in  which  she 
might  be  at  ease  with  herself.  It  even  enticed  her.  But  some- 
thing whispered  to  her,  "It  would  be  stagnation — death  in 
life."    And  then  she  was  afraid  of  it. 

She  spent  the  evening  in  miserable  depression,  not  know- 
ing what  she  could  do.  She  distrusted  and  almost  hated  her- 
self. And  she  could  not  decide  whether  or  not  on  the  morrow 
to  give  Caroline  some  insight  into  her  state  of  mind. 

On  the  following  day  she  was  still  miserable,  even  tormented, 
and  quite  undecided  as  to  what  she  was  going  to  do. 


102  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

She  spent  the  morning  at  her  dressmaker's,  and  walked,  with 
"her  maid,  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix.  There  she  met  a  Frenchwoman 
whom  she  knew  well,  Madame  de  Gretigny,  who  begged  her  to 
come  to  lunch  at  her  house  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore.  She 
accepted.  What  else  could  she  do?  After  lunch  she  drove 
with  her  friend  in  the  Bois.  Then  they  dropped  in  to  tea  with 
some  French  mutual  friends. 

The  usual  Paris  was  gently  beginning  to  take  possession 
of  her.  What  was  the  good  of  it  all?  What  had  she  really 
expected  of  this  visit?  She  had  started  from  London  with  a 
crazy  sense  of  adventure.  And  here  she  was  plunged  in  the  life 
of  convention !  Oh,  for  the  freedom  of  a  man !  Or  the  stable 
content  of  a  Caroline  Briggs! 

At  moments  she  felt  enraged. 

She  saw  the  crowds  passing  in  the  streets,  women  tripping 
along  consciously,  men — flaneurs — strolling  with  their  well- 
known  look  of  watchful  idleness,  and  she  felt  herself  to  be 
one  of  life's  prisoners.  And  she  knew  she  would  never  again 
take  hands  with  the  Paris  she  had  once  known  so  well.  Why 
was  that?  Because  of  something  in  herself,  something  irrevo- 
cable which  had  fixed  itself  in  her  with  the  years.  She  was 
changing,  had  changed,  not  merely  in  body,  but  in  something 
else.  She  felt  that  her  audacity  was  sinking  under  the  influ- 
ence of  her  diffidence.  Suddenly  it  occurred  to  her  that  perhaps 
this  sudden  visit  to  Paris  on  the  track  of  an  adventure  was 
the  last  strong  effort  of  her  audacity.  How  would  it  end  ?  In 
a  meek  and  ridiculous  return  to  London  after  a  lunch  with 
Caroline  Briggs,  a  dinner  with  Caroline,  a  visit  to  the  Opera 
Comique  with  Caroline !  That  really  seemed  the  probable  con- 
clusion of  the  whole  business.  And  yet — and  yet  she  still 
had  a  sort  of  queer  under  feeling  that  she  was  drawing  near 
to  a  climax  in  her  life,  and  that,  when  she  did  return  to  Lon- 
don, she  would  return  a  definitely  changed  woman. 

At  half-past  eight  that  night  she  walked  into  Caroline's 
wonderful  house  in  the  Champs-Elysees. 

During  dinner  the  two  women  talked  as  any  two  women  of 
their  types  might  have  talked,  quite  noncommittally,  although, 
in  a  surface  way,  quite  intimately.  Miss  Briggs  was  a  creature 
full  of  tact,  and  was  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  try  to  force 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  103 

a  confidence  from  anyone.  She  was  also  not  given  at  any  time 
to  pouring-  out  confidences  of  her  own. 

After  dinner  they  sat  in  a  little  room  which  Miss  Briggs  had 
had  conveyed  from  Persia  to  Paris.  Everything  in  it  was 
Persian.  When  the  door  by  which  it  was  entered  had  been  shut 
there  was  absolutely  nothing  to  suggest  Europe  to  those  within. 
A  faint  Eastern  perfume  pervaded  this  strange  little  room, 
which  suggested  a  deep  retirement,  an  almost  cloistered  seclu- 
sion. A  grille  in  one  of  the  walls  drew  the  imagination  towards 
the  harem.  It  seemed  that  there  must  be  hidden  women  over 
there  beyond  it.  Instinctively  one  listened  for  the  tinkle  of  child- 
ish laughter,  for  the  distant  plash  of  a  fountain,  for  the  shuffle 
of  slippers  on  marble. 

Lady  Sellingworth  admired  this  room,  and  envied  her  friend 
for  possessing  it.  But  that  night  it  brought  to  her  a  thought 
which  she  could  not  help  expressing. 

"Aren't  you  terribly  lonely  in  this  house,  Caroline  ?"  she  said. 
"It  is  so  large  and  so  wonderful  that  I  should  think  it  must 
make  solitude  almost  a  bodily  shape  to  you.  And  this  room 
seems  to  be  in  the  very  heart  of  the  house.  Do  you  ever 
sit  here  without  a  friend  or  guest?" 

"Now  and  then,  but  not  often  at  night,"  said  Miss  Briggs, 
with  serene  self-possession. 

"You  are  an  extraordinary  woman !"  said  Lady  Sellingworth. 

"Extraordinary!    Why?" 

"Because  you  always  seem  so  satisfied  to  live  quite  alone. 
I  hate  solitude.     I'm  afraid  of  it." 

Suddenly  she  felt  that  she  must  be  partially  frank  with  her 
hostess. 

"Is  self-respect  a  real  companion  for  a  woman?"  she  said. 
"Can  one  sit  with  it  and  be  contented  ?  Does  it  repay  a  woman 
for  all  the  sacrifices  she  has  oflFered  up  to  it?  Is  it  worth 
the  sacrifices?    That's  what  I  want  to  know." 

"I  dare  say  that  depends  on  the  woman's  mental  make  up," 
replied  Miss  Briggs.  "One  woman,  perhaps,  might  find  that 
it  was,  another  that  it  was  not." 

"Yes,  we  are  all  so  diflferent,  so  dreadfully  different,  one  from 
another." 

"It  would  be  very  much  duller  if  we  weren't." 

"Even  as  it  is  life  can  be  very  dull." 


104  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

"I  should  certainly  not  call  your  life  dull,"  said  Miss  Briggs. 

"Anyhow,  it's  dreadful!"  said  Lady  SeUingworth,  with  sud- 
den abandonment. 

"Why  is  it  dreadful?" 

"Caroline,  I  was  fifty  a  few  days  ago." 

As  Lady  SeUingworth  said  this  she  observed  her  friend 
closely  to  see  if  she  looked  surprised.  Miss  Briggs  did  not  look 
surprised.     And  she  only  said: 

"Were  you?  Well,  I  shall  be  fifty-eight  in  a  couple  of 
months." 

"You  don't  look  it." 

"Perhaps  that's  because  I  haven't  looked  young  for  the  last 
thirty  years." 

"I  hate  being  fifty.  The  difficulty  with  me  is  that  my — my 
nature  and  my  temperament  don't  march  with  my  age.  And 
that  worries  me.    What  is  one  to  do?" 

"Do  you  want  me  to  advise  you  about  something?" 

"I  think  I  do.  But  it's  so  difficult  to  explain.  Perhaps  there 
is  a  time  to  give  up.  Perhaps  I  have  reached  it.  But  if  I  do 
give  up,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  How  am  I  to  live  ?  I  might  marry 
again." 

"Why  not?" 

"It  would  have  to  be  an  elderly  man,  wouldn't  it?" 

"I  hope  so." 

"I — I  shouldn't  care  to  marry  an  elderly  man.  I  don't 
want  to." 

"Then  don't  do  it." 

"You  think  if  I  were  to  marry  a  comparatively  young 
man " 

She  paused,  looking  almost  pleadingly  at  the  uncompromising 
Miss  Briggs. 

"I'm  convinced  of  this,  that  no  really  normal  young  man 
could  ever  be  contented  long  if  he  married  a  middle-aged 
woman.  And  what  intelligent  woman  is  happy  with  an  abnor- 
mal man?" 

"Caroline,  you  are  so  dreadfully  frank !" 

"I  say  just  what  I  think." 

"But  you  think  so  drastically.  And  you  are  so  free  from 
sentiment." 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  105 

"What  is  called  sentiment  is  very  often  nothing  but  what 
is  described  in  the  Bible  as  the  lust  of  the  eye." 

This  shaft,  perhaps  not  intended  to  be  a  shaft,  went  home. 
Lady  Sellingworth  reddened  and  looked  down. 

"I  dare  say  it  is,"  she  murmured.  "But — but  no  doubt  some 
of  us  are  more  subject  to  temptation  than  others." 

"I'm  sure  that  is  so." 

"It's  very  difficult  to  give  up  deliberately  nearly  all  that 
has  made  life  interesting  and  attractive  to  you  ever  since 
you  can  remember.  Caroline,  would  you  advise  me  to — to  abdi- 
cate?   You  know  what  I  mean." 

Miss  Briggs's  rather  plain,  but  very  intelligent,  face  softened. 

"Adela,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "I  understand  a  great  deal  more 
than  you  have  cared  to  hint  at  to  me." 

"I  know  you  do." 

"I  think  that  unless  you  change  your  way  of  life  in  time 
you  are  heading  straight  for  tragedy.  We  both  know  a  lot 
of  women  who  try  to  defy  the  natural  law.  Many  of  them 
are  rather  wonderful  women.  But  do  you  think  they  are 
happy  women?  I  don't.  I  know  they  aren't.  Youth  laughs 
at  them.  I  don't  know  what  you  feel  about  it,  but  I  think 
I  would  rather  be  pelted  with  stones  than  be  jeered  at  by  youth 
in  my  middle  age.  Respect  may  sound  a  very  dull  word,  but  I 
think  there's  something  very  warm  in  it  when  it  surrounds 
you  as  you  get  old.  In  youth  we  want  love,  of  course,  all  of 
us.  But  in  middle  age  we  want  respect  too.  And  nothing 
else  takes  its  place.  There's  a  dignity  of  the  soul,  and  women 
like  us — I'm  older  than  you,  but  still  we  are  neither  of  us 
very  young  any  longer — only  throw  it  away  at  a  terrible  price. 
When  I  want  to  see  tragedy  I  look  at  the  women  who  try  to 
hang  on  to  what  refuses  to  stay  with  them.  And  I  soon  have 
to  shut  my  eyes.  It's  too  painful.  It's  like  looking  at  bones 
decked  out  in  jewels." 

Lady  Sellingworth  sat  very  still.  There  was  a  long  silence 
between  the  two  friends.  When  they  spoke  again  they  spoke 
of  other  things. 

That  night  Lady  Sellingworth  told  her  maid  to  pack  up,  as 
she  was  returning  to  London  by  the  morning  express  on  the 
following  day. 


106  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

At  the  Gare  du  Nord  there  was  the  usual  bustle.  But  there 
was  not  a  great  crowd  of  travellers  for  England,  and  Lady 
Sellingworth  without  difficulty  secured  a  carriage  to  herself. 
Her  maid  stood  waiting  with  the  jewel  case  while  she  went  to 
the  bookstall  to  buy  something  to  read  on  the  journey.  She  felt 
dull,  almost  miserable,  but  absolutely  determined.  She  knew 
that  Caroline  was  right.  She  thought  she  meant  to  take  her 
advice.  At  any  rate,  she  would  not  try  to  pursue  the  adven- 
ture which  had  lured  her  to  Paris.  How  she  would  be  able 
to  live  when  she  got  home  she  did  not  know.  But  she  would 
go  home.  It  had  been  absurd,  undignified  of  her  to  come  to 
Paris.     She  would  try  to  forget  all  about  it. 

She  bought  a  book  and  some  papers;  then  she  walked  to 
the  train. 

"Are  you  going  to  get  in,  my  lady?"  said  the  maid. 

"Yes.    You  can  put  in  the  jewel  case." 

The  maid  did  so,  and  Lady  Sellingworth  got  into  the  carriage 
and  sat  next  to  the  window  on  the  platform  side,  facing  the 
engine,  with  the  jewel  case  beside  her  on  the  next  seat.  The 
corridor  was  between  her  and  the  platform.  On  the  right,  be- 
yond the  carriage  door,  the  line  was  blocked  by  another 
train  at  rest  in  the  station. 

She  sat  still,  not  reading,  but  thinking.  The  maid  went  away 
to  her  second-class  carriage. 

Lady  Sellingworth  continued  to  feel  very  dull.  Now  that 
she  was  abandoning  this  adventure,  or  promise  of  adventure, 
she  knew  how  much  it  had  meant  to  her.  It  had  lifted  her 
out  of  the  anger  and  depression  in  which  she  had  been  plunged 
by  the  Rupert  Louth  episode.  It  had  appealed  to  her  wildness, 
had  given  her  new  hope,  something  to  look  forward  to,  some- 
thing that  was  food  for  her  imagination.  She  had  lived  in 
an  imagined  future  that  was  romantic,  delicious  and  turbulent. 
Now  she  knew  exactly  how  much  she  had  counted  on  this 
visit  to  Paris  as  the  door  through  which  she  would  pass  into 
a  new  and  extraordinary  romance.  She  had  felt  certain  that 
something  wonderful,  something  unconventional,  bizarre,  per- 
haps almost  maddening,  was  going  to  happen  to  her  in  Paris. 

And  now 

At  this  moment  she  became  aware  of  some  influence  which 
drew  her  attention  to  the  platform  on  her  left.     She  had  not 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  107 

seen  anyone;  she  had  simply  felt  someone.  She  turned  her 
head  and  looked  through  the  window  of  the  corridor. 

The  brown  man  was  on  the  platform  alone,  standing  still 
and  looking  intently  towards  her  carriage.  Two  or  three  peo- 
ple passed  him.  He  did  not  move.  She  felt  sure  that  he  was 
waiting  for  her  to  get  out,  that  this  time  he  meant  to  speak 
to  her. 

In  a  moment  all  her  good  resolutions,  all  the  worldly  wise 
advice  of  Miss  Briggs,  all  her  dullness  and  despair  were  for- 
gotten. The  wildness  that  would  not  die  surged  up  in  her.  Her 
vanity  glowed.  She  had  been  wrong,  utterly  wrong.  Miss 
Briggs  had  been  wrong.  Despite  the  difference  between  their 
ages,  this  man,  young,  strong,  amazingly  handsome,  must  have 
fallen  in  love  with  her  at  first  sight.  He  must  have — somehow 
— been  watching  her  in  Paris.  He  must  have  ascertained  that 
she  was  leaving  Paris  that  morning,  have  followed  her  to  the 
station  determined  at  all  costs  to  have  a  word  with  her. 

Should  she  let  him  have  that  word  ? 

Just  for  an  instant  she  hesitated.  Then,  almost  passionately, 
she  gave  way  to  a  turbulent  impulse.  She  felt  reckless.  At 
that  moment  she  was  almost  ready  to  let  the  train  go  without 
her.  But  there  were  still  a  few,  a  very  few,  minutes  before 
the  time  for  its  departure.  She  got  up,  left  the  carriage,  and 
stood  in  the  corridor  looking  out  of  the  window.  Immediately 
the  man  slightly  raised  his  hat,  sent  her  a  long  and  imploring 
look,  and  then  moved  slowly  away  down  the  platform  in  the 
direction  of  the  entrance  to  it.  She  gazed  after  him.  He 
paused,  again  raised  his  hat,  and  made  a  very  slight,  scarcely 
noticeable  gesture  with  his  hand.  Then  he  remained  where 
he  was. 

Saying  to  herself  that  she  would  certainly  not  obey  his  obvi- 
ous wish  and  follow  him,  but  would  simply  get  out  of  the  train 
and  take  a  few  breaths  of  air  on  the  platform — as  any  woman 
might  to  while  away  the  time — Lady  Sellingworth  made  her 
way  to  the  end  of  the  corridor  and  descended  to  the  platform. 
The  brown  man  was  still  there,  a  little  way  off.  Several  people 
were  hurrying  to  take  their  places  in  the  train.  Porters  were 
carrying  hand  baggage,  or  wheeling  trucks  of  heavy  luggage 
to  the  railway  vans.  No  one  seemed  to  have  any  time  to  take 
notice  of  her  or  of  the  man.    She  did  not  look  at  him,  but  began 


108  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

slowly  to  stroll  up  and  down,  keeping  near  to  her  carriage. 
She  had  given  him  his  chance.  Now  it  was  for  him  to  take 
firm  hold  on  it.  She  fully  expected  that  he  would  come  up  and 
speak  to  her.  She  thrilled  with  excitement  at  the  prospect. 
What  would  he  say  ?  How  would  he  act  ?  Would  he  explain 
why  he  had  done  nothing  in  Paris  ?  Would  he  beg  her  to  stay 
on  in  Paris  ?  Would  he  ask  to  be  allowed  to  visit  her  in  Lon- 
don ?    Would  he 

But  he  did  not  come  up  to  her. 

After  taking  several  short  turns,  keeping  her  eyes  reso- 
lutely away  from  the  place  where  he  was  standing,  Lady  Sell- 
ingworth  could  not  resist  the  impulse  to  look  towards  him  to 
see  what  he  was  doing.     She  lifted  her  eyes. 

He  was  gone. 

"En  voiture!"  cried  a  hoarse  voice. 

She  stood  still. 

"En  voiture!    En  voiture!" 

Mechanically  she  moved.  She  went  to  her  carriage,  put  her 
hand  on  the  rail,  mounted  the  steps,  passed  into  the  corridor, 
and  reached  her  compartment  just  as  the  train  began  to  move. 

What  had  happened  to  him?  What  was  the  meaning  of  it 
all?  Was  he  travelling  to  England  too?  Had  he  got  into  the 
train  ? 

She  sat  down  wondering,  almost  confused. 

Mechanically  she  let  her  right  hand  drop  on  to  the  seat  beside 

her.    She  was  so  accustomed  when  travelling  to  have  her  jewel 

.case  beside  her  that  her  hand  must  have  missed  it  though  her 

thoughts  were  far  from  it.     For  immediately  after  dropping 

her  hand  she  looked  down. 

The  jewel  case  was  gone. 

Instantly  her  feeling  of  confusion  was  swept  away ;  instantly 
she  understood. 

She  had  been  caught  in  a  trap  by  a  clever  member  of  the 
swell  mob  operating  with  a  confederate.  While  she  had  been 
on  the  platform,  to  which  she  had  been  deliberately  enticed, 
the  confederate  had  entered  the  compartment  from  the  line, 
through  the  doorway  on  the  right-hand  side  of  her  carriage, 
and  had  carried  off  the  jewel  case. 

The  revelation  of  the  truth  almost  stunned  something  in  her. 
Yet  she  was  able  to  think  quite  clearly.    She  did  nothing.    She 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  109 

just  sat  still  and  understood,  and  went  on  understanding,  while 
the  train  quickened  its  pace  on  its  way  towards  the  sea. 

By  the  time  it  slowed  down,  and  the  dull  houses  of  Calais 
appeared,  she  had  made  up  her  mind  about  the  future.  Her 
vanity  had  received  at  last  a  mortal  blow.  The  climax  had 
come.  It  was  not  what  she  had  expected,  but  her  imp — less 
satirical  now  than  desperately  tragic  and  powerfully  persua- 
sive, told  her  that  it  was  what  she  deserved.  And  she  bowed 
her  head  to  his  verdict,  not  with  tears,  but  with  a  cold  and 
stony  sense  of  finality. 

When  the  train  stopped  at  the  harbour  station  her  maid 
appeared  in  the  corridor. 

"Shall  I  take  the  jewel  case,  my  lady?" 

Lady  Sellingworth  stood  up.  She  had  not  decided  what  to 
say  to  her  maid.  She  was  taken  by  surprise.  As  she  stood, 
her  tall  figure  concealed  the  seat  on  which  the  jewel  case  had 
been  lying.  For  an  instant  she  looked  at  the  maid  in  silence. 
Perhaps  the  expression  of  her  face  was  strange,  for  after  a 
pause  the  maid  said  anxiously : 

"Whatever  is  it,  my  lady?" 

"Never  mind  about  the  jewel  case!"  said  Lady  Sellingworth. 

"But " 

"It's  gone!" 

"Gone,  my  lady!"  said  the  maid,  looking  aghast.  "Gone 
where  ?" 

"It  was  taken  at  the  station  in  Paris." 

"Taken,  my  lady!  But  it  was  in  the  carriage  by  the  side 
of  your  ladyship !  I  never  left  it.  I  had  it  in  my  own  hands 
till  your  ladyship " 

"I  know — I  know !  Don't  say  anything  more  about  it.  It's 
gone,  and  we  shall  never  see  it  again." 

The  maid  stared,  horrified,  and  scenting  a  mystery. 

"Get  that  porter!     Make  haste!" 

They  got  down  from  the  train.  Lady  Sellingworth  turned 
to  make  her  way  to  the  ship. 

"But,  my  lady,  surely  we  ought  to  speak  to  the  police? 
All  your  beautiful  jewels " 

"The  police  could  no  nothing.  It  is  too  late !  I  should  only 
have  endless  trouble,  and  no  good  would  come  of  it." 

"But  your  ladyship  was  in  the  carriage  with  them!" 


110  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

"Yes,  I  know !    Now  don't  say  any  more  about  the  matter !" 

There  was  something  in  her  tone  which  struck  the  maid 
to  silence.    She  said  not  another  word  till  they  were  on  the  ship. 

Then  Lady  Sellingworth  went  to  the  cabin  which  she  had 
telegraphed  for. 

"I  am  going  to  lie  down,"  she  said.    "You  can  leave  me." 

"Yes,  my  lady." 

After  arranging  things  in  the  cabin  the  maid  was  about  to 
go  when  Lady  Sellingworth  said : 

"You  have  been  with  me  a  long  time,  Henderson.  You  have 
been  very  useful  to  me.  And  I  think  I  have  been  a  good  mis- 
tress to  you." 

"Oh,  yes,  my  lady,  indeed  you  have.  I  would  do  anything 
for  your  ladyship." 

"Would  you?  Then  try  to  hold  your  tongue  about  this 
unfortunate  occurrence.  Talking  can  do  no  good.  I  shall  not 
inform  the  police.  The  jewels  are  gone,  and  I  shan't  get  them 
back.  I  have  a  great  dislike  of  fuss  and  gossip,  and  only 
wish  to  be  left  in  peace.  If  you  talk,  all  this  is  sure  to  get  into 
the  papers.     I  should  hate  that." 

"Yes,  my  lady.     But  surely  the  police " 

"It  is  my  business,  and  no  one  else's,  to  decide  what  is  best 
in  this  matter.  So  hold  your  tongue,  if  you  can.  You  will 
not  repent  it  if  you  do." 

"Yes,  my  lady.    Certainly,  my  lady." 

The  maid  was  obviously  horrified  and  puzzled.  But  she 
left  her  mistress  without  another  word. 

They  arrived  in  Berkeley  Square  in  the  evening. 

That  evening,  which  Lady  Sellingworth  spent  in  solitude, 
was  the  turning  point  in  her  life.  During  it  and  the  succeed- 
ing night  she  went  down  to  the  bedrock  of  realization.  She 
allowed  her  brains  full  liberty.  Or  they  took  full  liberty  as 
their  right.  The  woman  of  the  grey  matter  had  it  out  with 
the  woman  of  the  blood.  She  stared  her  wildness  in  the  face 
and  saw  it  just  as  it  was,  and  resolved  once  for  all  to  domi- 
nate it  for  the  rest  of  her  days.  She  was  not  such  a  fool 
as  to  think  that  she  could  ever  destroy  it.  No  doubt  it  would 
always  be  there  to  trouble  her,  perhaps  often  to  torture  her. 
But  rule  her,  as  it  had  ruled  her  in  the  past,  it  never  should 
again.    Her  resolve  about  that  was  hard,  of  a  rock-like  quality. 


I 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  111 

She  had  done  with  a  whole  side  of  life,  and  it  was  the  side 
for  which  she  had  lived  ever  since  she  was  a  girl  of  sixteen. 
The  renunciation  was  tremendous,  devastating  almost.  She 
thought  of  a  landslide  carrying  away  villages,  whole  popu- 
lations. How  true  had  been  the  instinct  which  had  told  her 
that  she  was  drawing  near  to  a  climax  in  her  life !  Had  ever 
a  woman  before  her  been  brought  in  a  flash  to  such  a  cruel 
insight?  It  was  as  if  a  tideless  sea,  by  some  horrible  miracle, 
retreated,  leaving  naked  rocks  which  till  that  moment  had  never 
been  seen  by  mortal  eyes,  hideous  and  grotesque  rocks  covered 
with  slime  and  ooze. 

And  she  stood  alone,  staring  at  them. 

She  remembered  the  dinner  in  her  house  at  which  there  had 
been  the  discussion  about  happiness,  and  the  desire  of  the 
old  Anglo-Indian  for  complete  peace  of  mind.  Could  a  woman 
gain  that  mysterious  benefit  by  giving  up  ?  Could  such  a  thing 
ever  be  hers?  She  did  not  believe  it.  But  she  knew  all  the 
torture  of  striving.  In  her  renunciation  she  would  at  least 
be  able  to  rest,  to  rest  in  being  frankly  and  openly  what  she 
was.  And  she  knew  she  was  tired.  She  was  very  tired.  Per- 
haps some  of  the  "old  guard"  were  made  of  cast  iron.  But 
she  was  not. 

The  "old  guard"!  With  the  thought  of  that  body  of  won- 
derful women  came  a  flood  of  memories.  She  remembered 
"The  Hags' -Hop."  She  saw  Rocheouart  standing  before  her; 
Rupert  Louth ;  other  young  men,  all  lively,  handsome,  ardent, 
bursting  with  life  and  the  wish  to  enjoy. 

Was  there  ever  a  time  when  the  human  being  could  utterly 
forego  the  wish  to  enjoy?  To  her  there  seemed  to  be  hidden 
in  desire  seeds  of  eternity.  The  struggle  for  her,  then,  was 
not  yet  over.  Perhaps  it  would  only  cease  in  the  grave.  And 
after?  Sellingworth  had  often  told  her  that  there  was  no 
hereafter.  And  at  the  time  she  had  believed  him.  But  she 
was  not  sure  now.  For  even  the  persistence  of  desire  seemed 
to  point  to  something  beyond.  But  she  would  not  bother  about 
that.     She  was  held  fast  enough  in  the  present. 

What  would  the  "old  guard"  say  of  her,  think  about  her, 
in  a  very  short  time  ?  What  a  defection  hers  would  be !  For 
she  had  resolved  to  take  a  plunge  into  middle  age.  No  gliding 
into  it   for  her!     She  would  let  everything  go  which  was 


112  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  two 

ready  to  go  naturally.  Her  Greek  had  already  lost  his  job, 
although  as  yet  he  did  not  know  it. 

Caroline  Briggs  would  believe  that  the  change  which  was 
at  hand,  the  change  which  would  be  discussed,  perhaps  laughed 
at,  praised  by  some,  condemned  by  others,  had  been  brought 
ahtput  by  the  conversation  in  the  Persian  Room.  She  would 
never  know  the  truth.  No  one  of  Lady  Sellingworth's  set 
would  ever  know  it.  For  no  one,  except  a  thief  and  his  under- 
lings, knew  of  the  last  folly  of  poor  old  Adela  Sellingworth. 

Poor  old  Adela  Sellingworth! 

As  Lady  Sellingworth  called  herself  bitterly  by  that  name 
tears  at  last  came  into  her  luminous  eyes.  Secretly  she  wept 
over  herself,  although  the  tears  did  not  fall  down  upon  her 
cheeks.  She  had  done  many  foolish  things,  many  wild  things, 
many  almost  crazy  things  in  her  life.  But  that  day  she  had 
surely  been  punished  for  them  all.  When  she  thought  of 
the  thieves'  plot  against  her,  of  the  working  out  of  it,  she  saw 
herself  lying,  like  a  naked  thing,  in  the  dust.  Such  men !  How 
had  they  known  her  character?  Somehow  they  must  have  got 
to  know  it,  and  devised  their  plan  to  appeal  to  it.  They  had 
woven  just  the  right  net  to  catch  her  in  its  folds.  She  seemed 
to  hear  their  hideous  discussions  about  her.  The  long  look 
in  Bond  Street  had  been  the  first  move  in  the  horrible  game. 
And  she  in  her  folly  had  connected  the  game  with  romance, 
with  something  like  love  even. 

Love!  A  life  such  as  hers  had  been  was  the  prostitution 
of  love,  and  now  she  deserved  to  be  loveless  for  the  rest  of 
her  life.  Vanity  and  sensuality  had  been  her  substitutes  for 
love.  She  had  dealt  in  travesty  and  had  pretended,  even  to 
herself,  that  she  was  following  reality.  It  was  amazing  how 
she  had  managed  to  deceive  herself. 

She  would  never  do  that  again. 

Very  late  that  night,  alone  in  her  bedroom,  she  sat  before 
a  mirror  and  looked  into  it,  saying  good-bye  to  the  self  which 
she  had  cherished  and  fostered  so  long,  had  lived  for  recklessly 
sometimes,  ruthlessly  almost  always.  She  saw  a  worn,  but 
still  very  handsome,  woman.  But  she  told  herself  that  the 
woman  was  hideous.  For  really  she  was  looking  at  the  woman 
underneath,  the  woman  who  was  going  to  emerge  very  soon 
into  the  daylight  with  a  frankly  lined  face  crowned  with  grey 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  L0\1E  113 

or  perhaps  even  white  hair,  at  the  woman  who  was  the  truth, 
at  herself.  This  woman  before  her  was  only  a  counterfeit,  a 
marvellously  clever  artificiality. 

There  were  two  electric  lights  at  the  sides  of  the  mirror. 
She  turned  them  both  on.  She  wanted  crude  light  just  then. 
Cruelty  she  was  taking  to  her  bosom.  She  was  grasping  her 
nettle  with  both  hands. 

Yes,  the  artificiality  was  marvellously  clever!  The  Greek 
had  been  worth  his  money.  He  had  created  a  sort  of  human 
orchid  whose  petals  showed  few,  wonderfully  few,  signs  of 
withering. 

But  she  had  wanted  to  be  not  the  orchid  but  really  the  rose. 
And  so  she  was  down  in  the  dust. 

Poor  old  Adela  Sellingworth,  who  in  a  very  short  time — how 
long  exactly  would  the  Greek's  work  take  to  crumble — would 
look  even  older  than  fifty ! 

She  turned  out  the  lights  presently  and  got  into  bed.  When 
she  had  made  the  big  bedroom  dark,  and  had  stretched  her 
long  body  out  between  the  sheets  of  Irish  linen,  she  felt  ter- 
rifically tir^d,  tired  in  body  and  spirit,  but  somehow  not  in 
mind.  Her  mind  was  almost  horribly  alive  and  full  of  agility. 
It  brought  visions  before  her;  it  brought  voices  into  her  ears. 

She  saw  men  of  the  underworld  sitting  together  in  shadows 
and  whispering  about  her,  using  coarse  words,  undressing  her 
character,  commenting  upon  it  without  mercy,  planning  how 
they  would  make  use  of  it  to  their  advantage.  She  heard  them 
laughing  about  her  and  about  all  the  women  like  her. 

And  presently  she  saw  an  old  woman  with  a  white  face,  a 
withered  throat  and  vague  eyes,  an  old  woman  in  a  black  wig, 
smiling  as  she  decked  herself  out  in  the  Sellingworth  jewels^ 


PART  THREE 


CHAPTER  I 

MISS  VAN  TUYN,  enthroned  among  distinguished  and 
definite  Georgians  in  a  nimbus  of  smoke,  presently  began 
to  wonder  what  had  become  of  a  certain  young  man.  Despite 
the  clamour  of  voices  about  her,  and  the  necessity  for  showing 
incessantly  that,  although  she  had  never  bothered  to  paint  cubist 
pictures  or  to  write  minor  poetry,  or  even  to  criticize  and 
appreciate  meticulously  those  who  did,  she  was  cleverer  than 
any  Georgian  of  them  all,  her  mind  would  slip  away  to  Berkeley 
Square.  She  had,  of  course,  noted  young  Craven's  tacit  re- 
sistance to  the  pressure  of  her  desire,  and  her  girlish  vanity 
had  resented  it.  But  she  had  remembered  that  even  in  these 
active  days  of  the  ruthless  development  of  the  ego  a  sense  of 
politeness,  of  what  is  "due"  from  one  human  being  to  another, 
still  lingers  in  some  perhaps  old-fashioned  bosoms.  Lady  Sell- 
ingworth  was  elderly.  Craven  might  have  thought  it  was  his 
absolute  duty  to  protect  her  from  the  possible  dangers  lurking 
between  Regent  Street  and  Berkeley  Square.  But  as  time 
went  on,  despite  the  sallies  of  Dick  Garstin,  the  bloodless 
cynicisms  of  Enid  Blunt,  who  counted  insolence  as  the  chief 
of  the  virtues,  the  amorous  sentimentalities  of  the  Turkish 
refugee  from  Smyrna,  whose  moral  ruin  had  been  brought 
about  by  a  few  lines  of  praise  from  Pierre  Loti,  the  touching 
appreciations  of  prison  life  by  Penitence  Murray,  and  the 
voluble  intellectuality  of  Thapoulos,  Jennings  and  Smith  the 
sculptor,  Miss  Van  Tuyn  began  to  feel  absent-minded.  Her 
power  of  attraction  was  quite  evidently  being  seriously  chal- 
lenged. She  was  now  certain — how  could  she  not  be — that 
Craven  had  not  merely  gone  to  Number  i8a,  but  had  also 
"gone  in." 

That  was  unnecessary.    It  was  even  very  strange.    For  she, 

115 


116  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

Beryl  Van  Tuyn,  was  at  least  thirty-six  years  younger  than 
Lady  Sellingworth. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  had  an  almost  inordinate  belief  in  the  at- 
traction youth  holds  for  men.  She  had  none  of  the  hidden 
diffidence  which  had  been  such  a  troubling  element  in  Lady 
Sellingworth's  nature.  Nor  was  there  any  imp  which  sat  out 
of  reach  and  mocked  her.  The  violet  eyes  were  satirical ;  but 
her  satire  was  reserved  for  others,  and  was  seldom  or  never 
directed  against  herself.  She  possessed  a  supply  of  self-assur- 
ance such  as  Lady  Sellingworth  had  never  had,  though  for 
manj  years  she  had  had  the  appearance  of  it.  Having  this 
inordinate  belief  and  this  strong  self-assurance,  having  also 
youth  and  beauty,  and  remembering  certain  little  things  which 
seemed  to  her  proof  positive  that  Craven  was  quite  as  sus- 
ceptible to  physical  emotions  as  are  most  healthy  and  normal 
young  men,  she  wondered  why  he  had  not  returned  to  the 
Cafe  Royal  after  leaving  Lady  Sellingworth  decorously  at  her 
door.  He  had  known  perfectly  well  that  she  wished  him  to 
return.  She  had  not  even  been  subtle  in  conveying  the  wish 
to  him.     And  yet  he  had  defied  it. 

Or  perhaps  Lady  Sellingworth  had  defied  it  for  him. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  was  really  as  fond  of  Lady  Sellingworth 
as  she  could  be  of  a  woman.  She  felt  strongly  the  charm 
which  so  many  others  had  felt.  Lady  Sellingworth  also  inter- 
ested her  brain  and  aroused  strongly  the  curiosity  which  was 
a  marked  feature  of  her  "make-up."  She  had  called  Lady 
Sellingworth  a  book  of  wisdom,  and  she  was  a  searcher  after 
what  she  believed  to  be  wisdom.  She  was  also  much  influenced 
by  distinction  and  personal  prestige.  About  the  distinction 
of  her  friend  there  could  be  no  doubt;  and  the  prestige  of 
a  once-famous  woman  of  the  world,  and  of  a  formerly  great 
beauty  whose  name  would  have  its  place  in  the  annals  of 
King  Edward  the  Seventh,  still  lingered  about  the  now-faded 
recluse  of  Berkeley  Square.  But  till  this  moment  Miss  Van 
Tuyn  had  never  thought  of  Lady  Sellingworth  as  a  possible 
rival  to  herself. 

Even  now  when  the  idea  presented  itself  to  her  she  was 
inclined  to  dismiss  it  as  too  absurd  for  consideration.  And 
yet  Craven  had  not  come  back,  although  he  must  know  she 
was  expecting  him. 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  117 

Perhaps  Lady  Sellingworth  had  made  him  go  in  against 
his  will. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  remembered  the  photograph  she  had  seen  at 
Mrs.  Ackroyd's.  That  woman  had  the  face  of  one  who  was  on 
the  watch  for  new  lovers.  And  does  a  woman  ever  change? 
Only  that  very  night  she  herself  had  said  to  Craven,  as  they 
walked  from  Soho  to  Regent  Street,  that  she  had  a  theory 
of  the  changelessness  of  character.  Or  perhaps  she  had  really 
meant  of  temperament.  She  had  even  said  that  she  believed 
that  the  Lady  Sellingworth  of  to-day  was  to  all  intents  and  pur- 
poses the  Lady  Sellingworth  of  yesterday  and  of  the  other  days 
of  her  past.  If  that  were  so — and  she  had  meant  what  she  had 
said — then  in  the  white-haired  woman,  who  seemed  now  indif- 
ferent to  admiration  and  leagues  removed  from  vanity,  there 
still  dwelt  a  woman  on  the  pounce. 

Young  Craven  was  very  good  looking,  and  there  was  some- 
thing interesting  about  his  personality.  His  casual  manner, 
which  was  nevertheless  very  polite,  was  attractive.  His  blue 
eyes  and  black  hair  gave  him  an  almost  romantic  appearance. 
He  was  very  quiet,  but  was  certainly  far  from  being  cold. 
And  he  undoubtedly  understood  a  great  deal,  and  must  have 
had  many  experiences  of  which  he  never  talked.  Miss  Van 
Tuyn  was  subtle  enough  to  know  that  he  was  subtle  too.  She 
had  made  up  her  mind  to  explore  his  subtlety.  And  now 
someone  else  was  exploring  it  in  Berkeley  Square.  The  line 
reappeared  in  her  low  white  forehead,  and  her  cult  for  Lady 
Sellingworth,  like  flannel  stieped  in  water,  underwent  a  shrink- 
ing process.  She  felt  strongly  the  indecency  of  grasping  old 
age.  And  through  her  there  floated  strange  echoes  of  voices 
which  had  haunted  Lady  Sellingworth's  youth,  voices  which 
had  died  away  long  ago  in  Berkeley  Square,  but  which  are 
captured  by  succeeding  generations  of  women,  and  which  per- 
sist through  the  ages,  finding  ever  new  dwellings. 

The  night  was  growing  late,  but  the  Georgians  bitterly  com- 
plained of  the  absurdity  of  London  in  having  a  closing  time. 
The  heat  and  the  noise  seemed  to  swell  with  the  passing  of 
the  hours,  and  a  curious  and  anaemic  brutality  dawned  with 
the  midnight  upon  many  of  the  faces  around  the  narrow  tables. 
They  looked  at  the  same  time  bloodless  and  hard.  Eyes  full  of 
languor,  or  feverish  with  apparent  expectation  of  some  im- 


118  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

pending  adventure,  stared  fixedly  through  the  smoke  wreaths 
at  other  eyes  in  the  distance.  Loud  voices  hammered  through 
the  murk.  Foreheads  beaded  with  perspiration  began  to  look 
painfully  expressive.     It  was  as  if  all  faces  were  undressed. 

Dick  Garstin,  the  famous  painter,  a  small,  slight,  clean-shaven 
man,  who  looked  like  an  intellectual  jockey  with  his  powerful 
curved  nose,  thin,  close-set  lips,  blue  cheeks  and  prominent, 
bony  chin,  and  who  fostered  the  illusion  deliberately  by  dress- 
ing in  large-checked  suits  of  a  sporting  cut,  with  big  buttons 
and  mighty  pockets,  kept  on  steadily  drinking  green  chartreuse 
and  smoking  small,  almost  black,  cigars.  He  was  said  to  be 
made  of  iron,  and  certainly  managed  to  combine  perpetual 
dissipation  with  an  astonishing  amount  of  hard  and  admirable 
work.  His  models  he  usually  found — or  so  he  said — at  the 
Cafe  Royal,  and  he  made  a  speciality  of  painting  the  por- 
traits of  women  of  the  demi-monde,  of  women  who  drank,  or 
took  drugs,  who  were  morphia  maniacs,  or  were  victims  of 
other  unhealthy  and  objectionable  crazes.  Nothing  wholly  sane, 
nothing  entirely  normal,  nothing  that  suggested  cold  water, 
fresh  air  or  sunshine,  made  any  appeal  to  him.  A  daisy  in  the 
grass  bored  him;  a  gardenia  emitting  its  strangely  unreal  per- 
fume on  a  dung  heap  brought  all  his  powers  into  play.  He 
was  an  eccentric  of  genius,  and  in  his  strangeness  was  really 
true  to  himself,  although  normal  people  were  apt  to  assert 
that  his  unlikeness  to  them  was  a  pose.  Simplicity,  healthy 
goodness,  the  radiance  of  unsmirched  youth  seemed  to  his 
eyes  wholly  inexpressive.  He  loved  the  rotten  as  a  dog  loves 
garbage,  and  he  raised  it  by  his  art  to  fascination.  Even  ad- 
mirable people,  walking  through  his  occasional  one-man  exhibi- 
tions, felt  a  lure  in  his  presentations  of  sin,  of  warped  woman- 
hood, and,  gazing  at  the  blurred  faces,  the  dilated  eyes,  the 
haggard  mouths,  the  vicious  hands  of  his  portraits,  were  shiver- 
ingly  conscious  of  missed  experiences,  and  for  the  moment  felt 
ill  at  ease  with  what  seemed  just  there,  and  just  then,  the 
dullness  of  virtue.  The  evil  admired  him  because  he  made 
evil  wonderful.    To  the  perverse  he  was  almost  as  a  god. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  was  an  admirer  of  Dick  Garstin.  She 
thought  him  a  great  painter,  but  apart  from  his  gift  his  mind 
interested  her  intensely.  He  had  a  sort  of  melancholy  under- 
standing of  human  nature  and  of  life,  a  strangely  sure  instinct 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  119 

in  probing  to  the  bottom  of  psychological  mysteries,  a  cruelly 
sure  hand  in  tearing  away  the  veils  which  the  victims  hoped 
would  shroud  their  weaknesses  and  sins.  These  gifts  made 
her  brain  respect  him,  and  tickled  her  youthful  curiosity.  It 
was  really  for  Dick  that  she  had  specially  wished  Lady  Selling- 
worth  to  join  the  Georgians  that  night.  And  now,  in  her  secret 
vexation,  she  was  moved  to  speak  of  the  once  famous 
Edwardian. 

"Have  you  ever  heard  of  Lady  Sellingworth  ?"  she  said, 
leaning  her  elbow  on  the  marble  table  in  front  of  her,  and 
bending  towards  Dick  Garstin  so  that  he  might  hear  her  through 
the  uproar. 

He  finished  one  more  chartreuse  and  turned  his  small  black 
eyes  upon  her.  Pin-points  of  piercing  light  gleamed  in  them. 
He  lifted  his  large,  coarse  and  capable  painter's  hand  to  his 
lips,  put  his  cigar  stump  between  them,  inhaled  a  quantity  of 
smoke,  blew  it  out  through  his  hairy  nostrils,  and  then  said 
in  a  big  bass  voice : 

"Never.    Why  should  I  have?    I  hate  society  women." 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  suppressed  a  smile  at  the  absurd  and  hack- 
neyed phrase,  which  reminded  her  of  picture  papers.  For  a 
moment  she  thought  of  Dick  Garstin  as  a  sort  of  inverted 
snob.  But  she  wanted  something  from  him,  so  she  pursued 
her  conversational  way,  and  inflicted  upon  him  a  rapid  descrip- 
tion of  Lady  Sellingworth,  as  she  had  been  and  as  she  was, 
recording  the  plunge  from  artificial  youth  into  perfectly  nat- 
ural elderliness  which  had  now,  to  her  thinking,  become  defi- 
nite old  age. 

The  painter  gave  her  a  sort  of  deep  and  melancholy  atten- 
tion, keeping  the  two  pin-points  of  light  directed  steadily  upon 
her. 

"Did  you  ever  know  a  woman  doing  such  a  thing  as  that, 
Dick?"  she  asked.  "Did  you  ever  know  of  a  woman  clinging 
to  her  youth,  and  then  suddenly,  in  a  moment,  flinging  all  pre- 
tence of  it  away  from  her?" 

He  did  not  trouble,  or  perhaps  did  not  choose,  to  answer 
her  question,  but  instead  made  the  statement: 

"She  had  been  thrown  oflf  by  some  lover.  In  a  moment 
of  furious  despair,  thinking  all  was  over  for  her  for  ever,  she 
let  everything  go.     And  then  she  hadn't  the  cheek  to  try  to 


120  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

take  any  of  it  back.  She  hadn't  the  toupet.  But"— he  flung  a 
large  hand  stained  with  pigments  out  in  an  ugly,  insolent 
gesture — "any  one  of  these  Heurs  du  mal  would  have  jumped 
back  from  the  white  to  the  bronze  age  when  the  fit  was  passed, 
without  caring  a  damn  what  anyone  thought  of  them.  All  the 
moral  bravery  is  in  the  underworld.     That  is  why  I  paint  it." 

"That  is  absolute  truth,"  said  Jennings,  who  was  sitting  next 
to  Dick  Garstin  and  smoking  an  enormous  pipe.  "The  lower 
you  go  the  more  truth  you  find." 

"Then  I  suppose  the  gutter  is  full  of  it,"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn. 

"The  Cafe  Royal  is,"  said  Garstin.  "There  are  free  women 
here.  Your  women  of  society  are  for  ever  waiting  on  the 
opinion  of  what  they  call  their  set — God  help  them !  Your  Lady 
Sellingworth,  for  instance — would  she  dare,  after  showing 
herself  as  an  old  woman,  to  become  a  young  woman  again? 
Not  she!     Her  precious  set  would  laugh  at  her  for  it.     But 

Cora,  for  instance "     He  pointed  to  a  table  a  little  way 

oflf,  at  which  a  woman  was  sitting  alone.  "Do  you  suppose 
Cora  cares  one  single  damn  what  you,  or  I,  or  anyone  else 
thinks  of  her?  She  knows  we  all  know  exactly  what  she  is, 
and  it  makes  not  a  particle  of  difference  to  her.  She'll  tell  you, 
or  anyone  else,  what  her  nature  is.  H  you  don't  happen  to 
like  it,  you  can  go  to  Hell — for  her.  That's  a  free  woman. 
Look  at  her  face.  Why,  it's  great,  because  her  life  and  what 
she  is  is  written  all  over  it.  I've  painted  her,  and  I'll  paint 
her  again.  She's  a  human  document,  not  a  sentimental  Valen- 
tine.   Waiter !    Waiter !" 

His  sonorous  bass  rolled  out,  dominating  the  uproar  around 
him.  Miss  Van  Tuyn  looked  at  the  woman  he  had  been  speak- 
ing of.  She  was  tall,  emaciated,  high  shouldered.  Her  face 
was  dead  white,  with  brightly  painted  lips.  She  had  dark  and 
widely  dilated  eyes  which  looked  hungry,  observant  and  desper- 
ate. The  steadiness  of  their  miserable  gaze  was  like  that  of 
an  animal.  She  was  dressed  in  a  perfectly  cut  coat  and  skirt 
with  a  neat  collar  and  a  black  tie.  Both  her  elbows  were  on 
the  table,  and  her  sharp  white  chin  was  supported  by  her  hands, 
on  which  she  wore  white  gloves  sewn  with  black.  Her  features 
were  good,  and  the  shape  of  her  small  head  was  beautiful.  Her 
expression  was  intense,  but  abstracted.  In  front  of  her  was 
a  small  tumbler  half  full  of  a  liquid  the  colour  of  water. 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  121 

A  waiter  brought  Garstin  a  gin-and-soda.  He  mixed  drinks 
in  an  almost  stupefying  way,  as  few  men  can  without  apparent 
ill-effects  unless  they  are  Russians. 

"Cora — a  free  woman,  by  God !"  he  observed,  lighting  an- 
other of  his  small  but  deadly  cigars. 

Enid  Blunt,  who  was  sitting  with  Smith  the  sculptor  and 
others  at  the  adjoining  table,  began  slowly,  and  with  an  insolent 
drawl,  reciting  a  sonnet.  She  was  black  as  the  night.  Even  her 
hands  looked  swarthy.  There  were  yellow  lights  in  her  eyes. 
Her  voice  was  guttural,  and  she  pronounced  English  with  a 
strong  German  accent,  although  she  had  no  German  blood  in 
her  veins  and  had  never  been  in  Germany.  The  little  Bolshevik, 
who  had  the  face  of  a  Russian  peasant,  candid  eyes  and  a  squat 
figure,  listened  with  an  air  of  profound  and  somehow  innocent 
attention.  She  possessed  neither  morals  nor  manners,  denied 
the  existence  of  God,  and  wished  to  pull  the  whole  fabric 
of  European  civilization  to  pieces.  Her  small  brain  was  ob- 
sessed by  a  desire  for  anarchy.  She  hated  all  laws  and  was 
really  a  calmly  ferocious  little  animal.  But  she  looked  like 
a  creature  of  the  fields,  and  had  something  of  the  shepherdess 
in  her  round  grey  eyes.  Thapoulos,  a  Levantine,  who  had  once 
been  a  courier  in  Athens,  but  who  was  now  a  rich  banker  with 
a  taste  for  Bohemia,  kept  one  thin  yellow  hand  on  her  shoulder 
as  he  appeared  to  listen,  with  her,  to  the  sonnet.  Smith,  with 
whom  the  little  Bolshevik  was  allied  for  the  time,  and  who 
did  in  clay  very  much  what  Garstin  did  on  canvas,  but  more 
roughly  and  with  less  subtlety,  looked  at  the  Levantine's  hand 
with  indifference.  A  large  heavy  man,  with  square  shoulders 
and  short  bowed  legs,  he  scarcely  knew  why  he  had  anything 
to  do  with  Anna,  or  remembered  how  they  had  come  together. 
He  did  not  understand  her  at  all,  but  she  cooked  certain  Russian 
dishes  which  he  liked,  and  minded  dirt  as  little  as  he  did.  Per- 
haps that  lack  of  minding  had  thrown  them  together.  He 
did  not  know ;  nobody  knew  or  cared. 

"Well,  Fm  a  free  woman,"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  in  answer 
to  Garstin's  exclamation  about  Cora.  "But  you've  never  both- 
ered to  paint  me." 

She  spoke  with  a  touch  of  irritation.  Somehow  things 
seemed  to  be  going  vaguely  wrong  for  her  to-night. 

"I  suppose  I  am  not  near  enough  to  the  gutter  yet,"  she  added. 


122  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

"You're  too  much  of  the  out-of-door  type  for  me,"  said  Gar- 
stin,  looking  at  her  with  almost  fierce  attention.  "There  isn't 
a  line  about  you  except  now  and  then  in  your  forehead  just 
above  the  nose.    And  even  that  only  comes  from  bad  temper." 

"Really,  Dick,"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  "you  are  absurd.  It's 
putting  your  art  into  a  strait  waistcoat  only  to  paint  Cafe  Royal 
types.  But  if  you  want  lines  Lady  Sellingworth  ought  to  sit 
for  you." 

Her  mind  that  night  could  not  detach  itself  from  Lady 
Sellingworth.  In  the  midst  of  the  noise,  and  crush,  and  strong 
light  of  the  cafe  she  continually  imagined  a  spacious,  quiet, 
and  dimly  lit  room,  very  calm,  very  elegant,  faintly  scented 
with  flowers;  she  continually  visuaHzed  two  figures  near  to- 
gether, talking  quietly,  earnestly,  confidentially.  Why  had  she 
allowed  Jennings  to  lead  her  astray?  She  might  have  been  in 
that  spacious  room,  too,  if  she  had  not  been  stupid. 

"I  want  to  ask  you  something  about  Lady  Sellingworth," 
she  continued.    "Come  a  little  nearer." 

Garstin  shifted  his  chair. 

"But  I  don't  know  her,"  he  said,  rumpling  his  hair  with 
an  air  of  boredom.  "An  old  society  woman !  What's  the  good 
of  that  to  me  ?  What  have  I  to  do  with  dowagers  ?  Bow  wow 
dowagers  !    Even  Rembrandt " 

"Now,  Dick,  don't  be  a  bore !  If  you  would  only  listen  occa- 
sionally, instead  of  continually " 

"Go  ahead,  young  woman !  And  bend  down  a  little  more. 
Why  don't  you  take  off  your  hat?" 

"I  will." 

She  did  so  quickly,  and  bent  her  lovely  head  nearer  to  him. 

"That's  better.  You've  got  a  damned  fine  head.  Ceres  might 
have  owned  it.  But  classical  stuff  is  no  good  to  me.  You 
ought  to  have  been  painted  by  Leighton  and  hung  on  the  line 
in  the  precious  old  Royal  Academy." 

Again  the  tell-tale  mark  appeared  above  the  bridge  of  Miss 
Van  Tuyn's  charming  nose. 

"I  painted  by  a  Royal  Academician!"  she  exclaimed. 
"Thank  you,  Dick !" 

Garstin,  who  was  as  mischievous  as  a  monkey,  and  who  loved 
to  play  cat  and  mouse  with  a  woman,  continued  to  gaze  at  her 
with  his  assumption  of  fierce  attention. 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  123 

"But  Leighton  being  unfortunately  dead,  we  can't  go  to 
him  for  your  portrait,"  he  continued  gravely.  "I  think  we  shall 
have  to  hand  you  over  to  McEvoy.  Smith !"  he  suddenly  roared. 

"Well,  what  is  it,  Dick,  what  is  it?"  said  the  sculptor  in  a 
thin  voice,  with  high  notes  which  came  surprisingly  through 
the  thicket  of  tangled  hair  about  the  cavern  of  his  mouth, 

"Who  shall  paint  Beryl  as  Ceres  ?" 

"I  refuse  to  be  painted  by  anyone  as  Ceres !"  said  Miss  Van 
Tuyn,  almost  viciously. 

"It  ought  to  have  been  Leighton.  But  he's  been  translated. 
I  suggested  McEvoy." 

"Oh,  Lord!  He'd  take  the  substance  out  of  her,  make  her 
transparent !" 

"I  have  it  then !  Orpen !  It  shall  be  Orpen!  Then  she  will 
be  hung  on  the  line." 

"You  talk  as  if  I  were  the  week's  washing,"  said  Miss  Van 
Tuyn,  recovering  herself.  "But  I  would  rather  be  on  the 
clothes-line  than  on  the  line  at  the  Royal  Academy.  No,  Dick, 
I  shall  wait." 

"What  for,  my  girl?" 

"For  you  to  get  over  your  acute  attack  of  Cafe  Royal.  You 
don't  know  how  they  laugh  at  you  in  Paris  for  always  painting 
morphinomanes  and  chloral  drinkers.  That  sort  of  thing  was 
done  to  death  in  France  in  the  youth  of  Degas.  It  may  be 
new  over  here.  But  England  always  lags  behind  in  art,  always 
follows  at  the  heels  of  the  French.    You  are  too  big  a  man " 

"I've  got  it.  Smith,"  said  Garstin,  interrupting  in  the  quiet 
even  voice  of  one  who  had  been  indulging  an  undisturbed 
process  of  steady  thought,  and  who  now  announced  the  definite 
conclusion  reached.     "I  have  it.     Frank  Dicksee  is  the  man !" 

At  this  moment  Jennings,  who  for  some  time  had  been  un- 
easily groping  through  his  beard,  and  turning  the  rings  round 
and  round  on  his  thin  damp  fingers,  broke  in  with  a  flood  of 
speech  about  modern  French  art,  in  which  names  of  all  the 
latest  painters  of  Paris  spun  by  like  twigs  on  a  spate  of  turbu- 
lent water.  The  Georgians  were  soon  up  and  after  him  in  full 
cry.  It  was  now  nearly  closing  time,  and  several  friends  of 
Garstin's,  models  and  others,  who  had  been  scattered  about  in 
the  cafe,  and  who  were  on  their  way  out,  stopped  to  hear  what 
was  going  on.    Some  adherents  of  Jennings  also  came  up.    The 


124(  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

discussion  became  animated.  Voices  waxed  roaringly  loud  or 
piercingly  shrill.  The  little  Bolshevik,  suddenly  losing  her 
round  faced  calm  and  the  shepherdess  look  in  her  eyes,  burst 
forth  in  a  voluble  outcry  in  praise  of  the  beauty  of  anarchy, 
expressing  herself  in  broken  English,  spoken  with  a  cockney 
accent,  in  broken  French  and  liquid  Russian.  Enid  Blunt, 
increasingly  guttural,  and  mingling  German  words  with  her 
Bedford  Park  English,  refuted,  or  strove  to  refute,  Jennings's 
ecstatic  praise  of  French  verse,  citing  rapidly  poems  composed 
by  members  of  the  Sitwell  group,  songs  of  Siegfried  Sassoon, 
and  even  lyrics  by  Lady  Margaret  Sackville  and  Miss  Victoria 
Sackville  West.  Jennings,  who  thought  he  was  still  speaking 
about  pictures  and  statues,  though  he  had  now  abandoned 
the  painters  and  sculptors  to  their  horrid  fates  in  the  hands  of 
Garstin  and  Smith,  replied  with  a  vivacity  rather  Gallic  than 
British,  and  finally,  emerging  almost  with  passion  from  his 
native  language,  burst  into  the  only  tongue  which  expresses 
anything  properly,  and  assailed  his  enemy  in  fluent  French. 
Thapoulos  muttered  comments  in  modern  Greek.  And  the 
Turkish  refugee  from  Smyrna  quoted  again  and  again  the 
words  of  praise  from  Pierre  Loti,  which  had  made  of  him  a 
moral  wreck,  a  nuisance  to  all  who  came  into  contact  with 
him,  a  mere  prancing  megalomaniac. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  did  not  join  in  the  carnival  of  praises  and 
condemnations.  She  had  suddenly  recovered  her  mental  bal- 
ance. Her  native  irony  was  roused  from  its  sleep.  She  was 
once  more  the  cool,  self-possessed  and  beautiful  girl  from 
whose  violet  eyes  satire  looked  out  on  all  those  about  her. 

"Let  them  all  makes  fools  of  themselves  for  my  benefit,"  was 
her  comfortable  thought  as  she  listened  to  the  chatter  of 
tongues. 

Even  Garstin  was  being  thoroughly  absurd,  although  his  ad- 
herents stood  round  catching  his  vociferations  as  if  they  were  so 
many  precious  jewels. 

"The  most  ridiculous  human  beings  in  the  world  at  certain 
moments  are  those  who  work  in  the  arts,"  was  Miss  Van  Tuyn's 
mental  comment.  "Painters,  poets,  composers,  novelists!  All 
these  people  are  living  in  blinkers.  They  can't  see  the  wide 
world.    They  can  only  see  studies  and  studios." 

She  wished  she  had  Craven  with  her  to  share  in  her  silent 


CHAPTER  1  DECEMBER  LOVE  125 

irony.  And  at  that  moment  she  felt  some  of  the  very  common 
conceit  of  the  rich  dilettante,  who  tastes  but  who  never  cre- 
ates, for  whom  indeed  most  of  the  creation  is  arduously  accom- 
plished. 

"They  sweat  for  me,  exhaust  themselves  for  me,  tear  each 
other  to  pieces  for  me!  If  I  were  not  here,  if  the  world  con- 
tained no  such  products  as  Beryl  Van  Tuyn  and  her  like,  female 
and  male,  what  would  all  the  Garstins,  and  Jenningses  and 
Smiths  and  Enid  Blunts  do?" 

And  she  felt  superior  in  her  incapacity  to  create  because  of 
her  capacity  to  judge.  Wrongly  she  might,  and  probably  did, 
judge,  but  she  and  her  like  judged,  spent  much  of  their  lives 
in  eagerly  judging.  And  the  poor  creators,  whatever  they 
might  say,  whatever  airs  they  might  give  themselves,  toiled 
to  gain  the  favourable  judgment  of  the  innumerable  Beryl  Van 
Tuyns. 

Closing  time  put  an  end  at  last  to  the  fracas  of  tongues. 
Even  geniuses  must  be  driven  forth  from  the  electric  light 
to  the  stars,  however  unwilling  to  go  into  a  healthy  atmosphere. 

There  was  a  general  movement.  Miss  Van  Tuyn  put  on  her 
hat  and  fur  coat,  the  latter  with  the  assistance  of  Jennings. 
Garstin  slipped  into  a  yellow  and  brown  ulster,  and  jammed 
a  soft  hat  on  to  his  head  with  its  thick  tangle  of  hair.  He 
lit  another  cigar  and  waved  his  hand  to  Cora,  who  was  on 
her  way  out  with  a  friend. 

"A  free  woman — by  God!"  he  said  once  more,  swinging 
round  to  where  Miss  Van  Tuyn  was  standing  between  Jennings 
and  Thapoulos.  "I'll  paint  her  again.  I'll  make  a  masterpiece 
of  her." 

"I'm  sure  you  will.  But  now  walk  with  me  to  the  Hyde 
Park  Hotel.    It's  on  your  way  to  Chelsea." 

"She  doesn't  care  whether  I  paint  her  or  not.  Cora  doesn't 
care.  Art  means  nothing  to  her.  She's  out  for  life,  hunks  of 
life.  She's  after  life  like  a  hungry  dog  after  the  refuse  on 
a  scrap  heap.  That's  why  I'll  paint  her.  She's  hungry.  Look 
at  her  face." 

Miss  Van  Tuyn,  perhaps  moved  by  the  sudden,  almost  fero- 
cious urgency  of  his  loud  bass  voice,  turned  to  have  a  last  look 
at  the  woman  who  was  "out  for  life" ;  but  Cora  was  already 
lost  in  the  crowd,  and  instead  of  gazing  into  the  dead-white 


126  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

face  which  suggested  to  her  some  strange  putrefaction,  she 
gazed  full  into  the  face  of  a  man.  He  was  not  far  off — by 
the  doorway  through  which  people  were  streaming  out  into 
Regent  Street — and  he  happened  to  be  looking  at  her.  She  had 
been  expecting  to  see  a  whiteness  which  was  corpse-like.  In- 
stead she  was  almost  startled  by  the  sight  of  a  skin  which 
suggested  to  her  one  of  her  own  precious  bronzes  in  Paris. 
It  was  certainly  less  deep  in  colour,  but  its  smooth  and  equal, 
unvarying  tint  of  brown  somehow  recalled  to  her  those  treas- 
ures which  she  genuinely  loved  and  assiduously  collected. 
And  he  was  marvellously  handsome  as  some  of  her  bronzes 
were  handsome,  with  strong,  manly,  finely  cut  features — auda- 
cious features,  she  thought.  His  mouth  specially  struck  her 
by  its  full-lipped  audacity.  He  was  tall  and  had  an  athletic 
figure.  She  could  not  help  swiftly  thinking  what  a  curse  the 
modern  wrappings  of  such  a  figure  were;  the  tubes  of  cloth 
or  serge — he  wore  blue  serge — the  unmeaning  waistcoat  with 
tie  and  pale-blue  collar  above  it,  the  double-breasted  jacket. 
And  then  she  saw  his  eyes.  Magnificent  eyes,  she  thought 
them,  soft,  intelligent,  appealing,  brown  like  his  skin  and 
hair.  And  they  were  gazing  at  her  with  a  sort  of  sympathetic 
intention. 

Suddenly  she  felt  oddly  restored.  Really  she  had  had  a  bad 
evening.  Things  had  not  gone  quite  right  for  her.  She  had 
saved  the  situation  in  a  measure  just  at  the  end  by  taking 
refuge  in  irony.  But  in  her  irony  she  had  been  quite  alone. 
And  to  be  quite  alone  in  anything  is  apt  to  be  dull.  Craven 
had  let  her  down.  Lady  Sellingworth  had  not  played  the  game 
— or  had  played  it  too  well,  which  was  worse.  Garstin  had 
been  unusually  tiresome  with  his  allusions  to  the  Royal  Acad- 
emy and  his  preposterous  concentration  on  the  Cora  woman. 

This  brown  stranger's  gaze  was  really  like  manna  falling 
from  heaven  in  a  hungry  land.  She  boldly  returned  the  gaze, 
keeping,  however,  all  meaning  out  of  her  eyes.  She  merely 
stared,  trusting  to  her  own  beauty.  And  as  she  stared  she 
tried  to  sum  up  the  stranger,  and  failed.  She  guessed  him 
a  little  over  thirty,  but  not  much.  And  there  somehow,  after 
the  quick,  instinctive  guess  at  his  age,  she  stuck. 

"Come  on.  Beryl!" 

Garstin's  deep  strong  voice  startled  her.     At  that  moment 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  127 

she  felt  angry  with  him  for  calling  her  by  her  Christian  name, 
though  he  had  done  it  ever  since  they  had  first  made  friends 
— if  they  were  friends — in  Paris  two  years  ago,  when  he  had 
come  to  have  a  look  at  her  bronzes  with  a  French  painter 
whom  she  knew  well. 

"You  are  going  to  walk  back  with  me  ?" 

"To  be  sure  I  am.  He  is  devilish  good  looking,  but  he  ought 
to  be  out  of  those  clothes." 

"Dick !" 

He  smiled  at  her  sardonically.  She  knew  that  he  seldom 
missed  anything,  but  his  sharp  observation  in  the  midst  of  the 
squash  of  people  going  out  of  the  cafe  took  her  genuinely 
aback.  And  then  he  had  got  at  her  thought,  at  one  of  her 
most  definite  thoughts  at  least,  about  the  brown  stranger ! 

"You  are  disgustingly  clever,"  she  said,  as  they  made  their 
way  out,  followed  by  the  Georgians  and  their  attendant  cosmo- 
politans.    "I  believe  I  dislike  you  for  it  to-night." 

"Then  take  a  cab  home  and  I'll  walk." 

"No,  thank  you.  I'd  rather  endure  your  abominable  intelli- 
gence." 

He  smiled,  curling  up  the  left  corner  of  his  sensual  mouth. 

"Come  on  then.  Don't  bother  about  good-byes  to  all  these 
fools.  They'll  never  stop  talking  if  they  once  begin  good-bying. 
Like  sheep  they  don't  know  how  to  get  away  from  each  other 
once  they've  been  herded  together.     Come  on !     Come  on !" 

He  thrust  an  arm  through  hers  and  almost  roughly,  but 
forcibly,  got  her  away  through  the  throng.  As  he  did  so  she 
was  pushed  by,  or  accidentally  pushed  against,  several  people. 
For  a  brief  instant  she  was  in  contact  with  a  man.  She  felt 
his  side,  the  bone  of  one  of  his  hips.  It  was  the  man  who 
had  looked  at  her  in  the  cafe.  She  saw  in  the  night  the  gleam 
of  his  big  brown  eyes  looking  down  into  hers.  Then  she 
and  Garstin  were  tramping — Garstin  always  seemed  to  be 
tramping  when  he  walked — over  the  pavement  of  Regent  Street. 

"Catch  on  tight!    Let's  get  across  and  down  to  Piccadilly." 

"Very  well." 

Presently  they  were  passing  the  Ritz.  They  got  away  from 
the  houses  on  that  side.  Now  on  their  left  were  the  tall  rail- 
ings that  divided  them  from  the  stretching  spaces  of  the  Park 
shrouded  in  the  darkness  and  mystery  of  night. 


128  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

"Well,  my  girl,  what  are  you  after?"  said  Garstin,  who 
never  troubled  about  the  conventionalities,  and  seemed  never 
to  care  what  anyone  thought  of  him  and  his  ways.  "Go  ahead. 
Let  me  have  it.  I'm  not  coming  in  to  your  beastly  hotel,  you 
know.    So  get  on  with  your  bow  wow  Dowager." 

"So  you  remember  that  I  had  begun " 

"Of  course  I  do." 

"Do  you  ever  miss  anything — let  anything  escape  you  ?" 

"I  don't  know.    Well,  what  is  it?" 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you  something  about  Lady  Sellingworth 
which  has  puzzled  me  and  a  friend  of  mine.  It  is  a  sort  of 
social  mystery." 

"Social !    Oh,  Lord !" 

"Now,  Dick,  don't  be  a  snob.  You  are  a  snob  in  your  pre- 
tended hatred  of  all  decent  people." 

"D'you  call  your  society  dames  decent?" 

"Be  quiet  if  you  can !    You're  worse  than  a  woman." 

He  did  not  say  anything.  His  horsey  profile  looked  hard 
and  expressionless  in  the  night.  As  she  glanced  at  it  she  could 
not  help  thinking  of  Newmarket.  He  ought  surely  to  have  been 
a  jockey  with  that  face  and  figure. 

"You  are  listening?" 

He  said  nothing.  But  he  turned  his  face  and  she  saw 
the  two  pin-points  of  light.  That  was  enough.  She  told  him 
about  the  theft  of  Lady  Sellingworth's  jewels,  her  neglect  of 
all  endeavour  to  recover  them,  her  immediate  plunge  into  mid- 
dle-age after  the  theft,  and  her  avoidance  of  general  society 
ever  since. 

"What  do  you  make  of  it?"  she  asked,  when  she  had 
finished. 

"Make  of  it?" 

"Yes." 

"Does  your  little  mind  find  it  mysterious?" 

"Well,  isn't  it  rather  odd  for  a  woman  who  loses  fifty  thou- 
sand pounds'  worth  of  jewels  never  to  try  to  get  them  back?" 

"Not  if  they  were  stolen  by  a  lover." 

"You  think " 

"It's  as  obvious  as  that  Martin,  R.A.,  can't  paint  and  I  can." 

"But  I  believe  they  were  stolen  at  the  Gare  du  Nord.  Now 
does  that  look  like  a  lover  ?" 


CHAPTER  r  DECEMBER  LOVE  1^ 

"I  didn't  say  the  Gare  du  Nord  looked  like  a  lover." 

"Don't  be  utterly  ridiculous  !" 

"I  don't  care  where  they  were  stolen — your  old  dowager's 
Gew-gaws.  Depend  upon  it  they  were  stolen  by  some  man 
she'd  been  mixed  up  with,  and  she  knew  it,  and  didn't  dare 
to  prosecute.    I  can't  see  any  mystery  in  the  matter." 

"Perhaps  you  are  right." 

"Of  course  I  am  right." 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  said  nothing  for  two  or  three  minutes.  Her 
mind  had  gone  from  Lady  Sellingworth  to  Craven,  and  then 
flitted  on — she  did  not  know  why — to  the  man  who  had  gazed 
at  her  so  strangely  in  the  Cafe  Royal.  She  had  been  feeling 
rather  neglected,  badly  treated  almost,  and  his  look  had  restored 
her  to  her  normal  supreme  self-confidence.  That  fact  would 
always  be  to  the  stranger's  credit.  She  wondered  very  much 
who  he  was.  His  good  looks  had  almost  startled  her.  She 
began  also  to  wonder  what  Garstin  had  thought  of  him.  Gar- 
stin  seldom  painted  men.  But  he  did  so  now  and  then.  Two 
of  his  finest  portraits  were  of  men :  one  a  Breton  fisherman 
who  looked  like  an  apache  of  the  sea,  the  other  a  Spanish  bull- 
fighter dressed  in  his  Sunday  clothes  with  the  book  of  the  Mass 
in  his  hand.  Miss  Van  Tuyn  had  seen  them  both.  She  now 
found  herself  wishing  that  Garstin  would  paint  a  portrait  of  the 
man  who  had  looked  at  her.  But  was  he  a  Cafe  Royal  type? 
At  present  Garstin  painted  nothing  which  did  not  come  out  of 
the  Cafe  Royal. 

"That  man "  she  said  abruptly. 

"I  was  just  wondering  when  we  should  get  to  him!"  inter- 
jected Garstin.  "I  thought  your  old  dowager  wouldn't  keep 
us  away  from  him  long." 

"I  suppose  you  know  by  this  time,  Dick,  that  I  don't  care 
in  the  least  what  you  think  of  me." 

"The  only  reason  I  bother  about  you  is  because  you  are  a 
thoroughly  independent  cuss  and  have  a  damned  fine  head." 

"Why  don't  you  paint  me?" 

"I  may  come  to  it.  But  if  I  do  I'm  mortally  afraid  they'll 
make  an  academician  of  me.   Go  on  about  your  man." 

"Didn't  you  think  him  a  wonderful  type?" 

"Yes." 

"Tell  me!    If  you  want  to  paint  someone,  what  do  you  do?" 


130  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

"Do  ?    Go  up  and  tell  him  or  her  to  come  along  to  the  studio." 

"Whether  you  know  them  or  not?" 

"Of  course." 

"You  ought  to  paint  that  man." 

"Just  because  you  want  me  to  pick  him  up  and  then  introduce 
him  to  you.    I  don't  paint  for  reasons  of  that  kind." 

"Have  you  ever  seen  him  before  to-night?" 
*      "Yes.    I  saw  him  last  night." 

"For  the  first  time?" 

"Yes." 

"At  the  Cafe  Royal?" 

"Yes." 

"What  do  you  think  he  is  ?" 

"Probably  a  successful  blackmailer." 

For  some  obscure  reason  Miss  Van  Tuyn  felt  outraged  by 
this  opinion  of  Garstin. 

"The  fact  is,"  she  said,  but  in  quite  an  impersonal  voice, 
"that  your  mind  is  getting  warped  by  living  always  among 
the  scum  of  London,  and  by  studying  and  painting  only  the 
scum.  It  really  is  a  great  pity.  A  painter  ought  to  be  a  man 
of  the  world,  not  a  man  of  the  underworld." 

"And  the  d  propos  of  all  this  ?"  asked  Garstin. 

"You  are  beginning  to  see  the  morphia  maniac,  the  drunk- 
ard, the  cocaine  fiend,  the  prostitute,  the " 

"Blackmailer?" 

"Yes,  the  blackmailer,  if  you  like,  in  everyone  you  meet.  You 
live  in  a  sort  of  bad  dream,  Dick.  You  paint  in  a  bad  dream. 
If  you  go  on  like  this  you  will  lose  all  sense  of  the  true  values." 

"But  I  honestly  do  believe  the  man  you  want  me  to  pick  up 
and  then  introduce  to  you  to  be  a  successful  blackmailer." 

"Why?    Do  you  know  anything  about  him?" 

"Absolutely  nothing." 

"Then  your  supposition  about  him  is  absurd  and  rather 
disgusting." 

"It  isn't  a  supposition." 

"What  is  it  then?" 

"Perhaps  you  don't  realize,  my  girl,  that  I'm  highly  sensitive." 

"You  seldom  seem  so.  But,  of  course,  I  realize  that  you 
couldn't  paint  as  you  do  unless  you  were." 

"Instead  of  using  the  word  supposition  in  connexion  with 


CHAPTER  X  DECEMBER  LOVE  131 

a  fellow  like  myself  your  discrimination  should  have  led  you 
to  choose  the  word  instinct," 

"Oh?" 

"Let's  cross  over.    Catch  on!" 

They  crossed  to  the  side  of  the  road  next  to  Hyde  Park. 

"My  instinct  tells  me  that  the  magnificently  handsome  man 
who  stared  at  you  to-night  is  of  the  tribe  that  lives  by  making 
those  who  are  indiscreetly  susceptible  to  beauty  pay  heavy 
tribute,  in  hard  cash  or  its  equivalent.  He  is  probably  a  king 
in  the  underworld.  Perhaps  I  really  will  paint  him.  No,  I'm 
not  coming  in." 

He  left  her  on  the  doorstep  of  the  hotel  and  tramped  off 
towards  Chelsea, 


CHAPTER  II 

CRAVEN  went  away  from  Berkeley  Square  that  night  still 
under  the  spell  and  with  a  mind  unusually  vivid  and  alive. 
As  he  had  told  Lady  Sellingworth,  he  was  now  twenty-nine 
and  no  longer  considered  himself  young.  At  the  P.O.  there 
are  usually  a  good  many  old  young  men,  just  as  in  London 
society  there  are  always  a  great  many  young  old  women. 
Craven  was  one  of  the  former.  He  was  clever,  discreet  and 
careful  in  his  work.  He  was  also  ambitious  and  intended  to 
rise  in  the  career  he  had  chosen.  To  succeed  he  knew  that 
energy  was  necessary,  and  consequently  he  was  secretly  ener- 
getic. But  his  energy  did  not  usually  show  above  the  surface. 
Tradition  rather  forbade  that.  He  had  a  quiet,  even  a  lazy 
manner  as  a  rule,  and  he  thought  he  often  felt  old,  especially 
in  London.  There  was  something  in  the  London  atmosphere 
which  he  considered  antagonistic  to  youth.  He  had  felt  dec- 
ades younger  in  Italy,  especially  when  his  ambassador  had  taken 
him  to  Naples  in  summer-time.  But  that  was  all  over  now.  It 
might  be  a  long  time  before  he  was  again  attached  to  an 
embassy. 

When  he  reached  his  rooms,  or,  rather,  his  flat,  which  was 
just  off  Curzon  Street,  he  went  to  look  at  his  bookshelves, 
and  ran  his  finger  along  them  until  he  came  to  the  poems  of 
William  Watson,  which  were  next  to  Rupert  Brooke's  poems. 
After  looking  at  the  index  he  found  the  lyric  he  wanted,  sat 
down,  lit  his  pipe,  and  read  it  four  times,  thinking  of  Lady 
Sellingworth.  Then  he  put  away  the  book  and  meditated. 
Finally — it  was  after  one  o'clock — he  went  almost  reluctantly 
to  bed. 

In  the  morning  he,  of  course,  felt  diflferent — one  always  feels 
different  in  the  morning — but  nevertheless  he  was  aware  that 
something  definite  had  come  into  his  life  which  had  made  a 
change  in  it.    This  something  was  his  acquaintance  with  Lady 

132 


CHAPTER  11  DECEMBER  LOVE  133 

Sellingworth.  Already  he  found  it  difficult  to  believe  that  he 
had  lived  for  twenty-eight  years  without  knowing  her. 

He  was  one  of  those  rather  unusual  young  men  who  feel 
strongly  the  vulgarity  of  their  own  time,  and  who  have  in  them 
something  which  seems  at  moments  to  throw  back  into  the  past. 
Not  infrequently  he  felt  that  this  mysterious  something  was 
lifting  up  the  voice  of  the  laudator  temp  oris  acti.  But  what  did 
he,  the  human  being  who  contained  this  voice  and  many  other 
voices,  know  of  those  times  now  gone?  They  seemed  to  draw 
him  in  ignorance,  and  had  for  him  something  of  the  fascina- 
tion which  attaches  to  the  unknown.  And  this  fascination,  or 
something  akin  to  it,  hung  about  Lady  Sellingworth,  and 
even  about  the  house  in  which  she  dwelt,  and  drew  him  to 
both.  He  knew  that  he  had  never  been  in  any  house  in  London 
which  he  liked  so  much  as  he  liked  hers,  that  in  no  other  London 
house  had  he  ever  felt  so  much  at  home,  so  almost  curiously 
in  place.  The  mere  thought  of  the  hall  with  its  blazing  fire,  its 
beehive-chair,  its  staircase  with  the  balustrade  of  wrought  iron- 
work and  gold,  filled  him  with  a  longing  to  return  to  it,  to 
hang  up  his  hat — and  remain.  And  the  lady  of  the  house  was 
ideally  right  in  it.  He  wondered  whether  in  the  future  he  would 
often  be  there,  whether  Lady  Sellingworth  would  allow  him  to 
be  one  of  the  few  real  intimates  to  whom  her  door  was  open. 
He  hoped  so ;  he  believed  so ;  but  he  was  not  quite  certain  about 
it.  For  there  was  something  elusive  about  her,  not  insincere 
but  just  that — elusive.  She  might  not  care  to  see  very  much 
of  him  although  he  knew  that  she  liked  him.  They  had  touched 
the  fringe  of  intimacy  on  the  preceding  night. 

After  his  work  at  the  Foreign  Office  was  over  he  walked  to 
the  club,  and  the  first  man  he  saw  on  entering  it  was  Francis 
Braybrooke  just  back  from  Paris.  Braybrooke  was  buying 
some  stamps  in  the  hall,  and  greeted  Craven  with  his  usual 
discreet  cordiality. 

"Fll  come  in  a  moment,"  he  said.  "If  you're  not  busy  we 
might  have  a  talk.  I  shall  like  to  hear  how  you  fared  with 
Adela  Sellingworth." 

Craven  begged  him  to  come,  and  in  a  few  minutes  they  were 
settled  in  two  deep  arm-chairs  in  a  quiet  corner,  and  Craven 
was  telling  of  his  first  visit  to  Berkeley  Square. 

"Wasn't  I  right?"  said  Braybrooke.    "Could  Adda  Selling- 


134  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

worth  ever  be  a  back  number?  I  think  that  was  your  ex- 
pression." 

Craven  sh'ghtly  reddened. 

"Was  it?" 

"I  think  so,"  said  Braybrooke,  gently  but  firmly. 

"I  was  a — a  young  fool  to  use  it." 

"I  fancy  it's  a  newspaper  phrase  that  has  pushed  its  way 
somehow  into  the  language." 

"Vulgarity  pushes  its  way  in  everywhere  now.  Braybrooke, 
I  want  to  thank  you  very  much  for  your  introduction  to  Lady 
Sellingworth.  You  were  right.  She  has  a  wonderful  charm. 
It's  a  privilege  for  a  young  man,  as  I  am  I  suppose,  to  know 
her.  To  be  with  her  makes  life  seem  more  what  it  ought  to 
be,  what  one  wants  it  to  be." 

Braybrooke  looked  extremely  pleased,  almost  touched. 

"I  am  glad  you  appreciate  her,"  he  said.  "It  shows  that 
real  distinction  has  still  a  certain  appeal.  And  so  you  met  Beryl 
Van  Tuyn  there." 

"Do  you  know  her?" 

Braybrooke  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"Know  her?  How  should  I  not  know  her  when  I  am  con- 
stantly running  over  to  Paris  ?" 

"Then  I  suppose  she's  very  much  'in  it'  there?" 

"Yes.  She  is  criticized,  of  course.  She  lives  very  uncon- 
ventionally, although  Fanny  Cronin  is  always  officially  with 
her." 

"Fanny  Cronin?" 

"Her  dayyie  de  compagfde." 

"Oh,  the  lady  who  reads  Paul  Bourget !" 

"I  believe  she  does.  Anyhow,  one  seldom  sees  her  about. 
Beryl  Van  Tuyn  is  very  audacious.  She  does  things  that  no 
other  lovely  girl  in  her  position  would  ever  dare  to  do,  or  could 
do  without  peril  to  her  reputation.  But  somehow  she  brings 
them  off.  Mind,  I  haven't  a  word  to  say  against  her.  She 
is  exceedingly  clever  and  has  mastered  the  difficult  art  of  mak- 
ing people  accept  from  her  what  they  wouldn't  accept  for  a 
moment  from  any  other  unmarried  girl  in  society.  She  may 
be  said  to  have  a  position  of  her  own.    Do  you  like  her  ?" 

"Yes,  I  think  I  do.    She  is  lovely  and  very  good  company." 

"Frenchmen  rave  about  her." 


CHAPTER  II  DECEMBER  LOVE  13S 

"And  Frenchwomen?" 

"Oh,  they  all  know  her.  She  carries  things  through.  That 
really  is  the  art  of  life,  to  be  able  to  carry  things  through.  Her 
bronzes  are  quite  remarkable.  By  the  way,  she  has  an  excel- 
lent brain.  She  cares  for  the  arts.  She  is  by  no  means  a 
fribble.  I  have  been  surprised  by  her  knowledge  more  than 
once." 

"She  seems  very  fond  of  Lady  Sellingworth.  She  wants  to 
get  her  over  to  Paris." 

"Adela  Sellingworth  won't  go." 

"Why  not?" 

"She  seems  to  hate  Paris  now.  It  is  years  since  she  has 
stayed  there." 

After  a  pause  Craven  said: 

"Lady  Sellingworth  is  something  of  a  mystery,  I  think.  I 
wonder — I  wonder  if  she  feels  lonely  in  that  big  house  of  hers." 

"Far  more  people  feel  lonely  than  seem  lonely,"  said  Bray- 
brooke. 

"I  expect  they  do.  But  I  think  that  somehow  Lady  Selling- 
worth  seems  lonely.    And  yet  she  is  full  of  mockery." 

"Mockery?" 
'     "Yes.    I  feel  it." 

"But  didn't  you  find  her  very  kind?" 

"Oh,  yes.     I  meant  of  self-mockery." 

Braybrooke  looked  rather  dubious. 

"I  think,"  continued  Craven,  perhaps  a  little  obstinately, 
"that  she  looks  upon  herself  with  irony,  while  Miss  Van  Tuyn 
looks  upon  others  with  irony.  Perhaps,  though,  that  is  rather 
a  question  of  the  different  outlooks  of  youth  and  age." 

"H'm?" 

Braybrooke  pulled  at  his  grey-and-brown  beard. 

"I  scarcely  see — I  scarcely  see,  I  confess,  why  age  should  be 
more  disposed  to  self-mockery  than  youth.  Age,  if  properly 
met  and  suitably  faced — that  is,  with  dignity  and  self-respect, 
such  as  Adela  Sellingworth  undoubtedly  shows — has  no  reason 
for  self -mockery ;  whereas  youth,  although  charming  and  de- 
lightful, might  well  laugh  occasionally  at  its  own  foolishness." 

"Ah,  but  it  never  does !" 

"I  think  for  once  I  shall  have  a  cocktail,"  said  Braybrooke, 


136  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

signing  to  an  attendant  in  livery,  who  at  that  moment  came 
from  some  hidden  region  and  looked  around  warily. 

"You  will  join  me,  Craven?  Let  it  be  dry  Martinis.  Eh? 
Yes !    Two  dry  Martinis." 

As  the  attendant  went  away  Braybrooke  added: 

"My  dear  boy,  if  you  will  exuse  me  for  saying  so,  are  you 
not  getting  the  Foreign  Office  habit  of  being  older  than  your 
years?  I  hope  you  will  not  begin  wearing  horn  spectacles 
while  your  sight  is  still  unimpaired." 

Craven  laughed  and  felt  suddenly  younger. 

The  two  dry  Martinis  were  brought,  and  the  talk  grew  a 
little  more  lively.  Braybrooke,  who  seldom  took  a  cocktail, 
was  good  enough  to  allow  it  to  go  to  his  head,  and  became,  for 
him,  almost  unbuttoned.  Craven,  entertained  by  his  elderly 
friend's  unwonted  exuberance,  talked  more  freely  and  a  little 
more  intimately  to  him  than  usual,  and  presently  alluded  to 
the  events  of  the  previous  night,  and  described  his  expedition 
to  Soho. 

"D'you  know  the  Ristorante  Bella  Napoli?"  he  asked  Bray- 
brooke. "Vesuvius  all  over  the  walls,  and  hair-dressers  playing 
Neapolitan  tunes?" 

Braybrooke  did  not,  but  seemed  interested,  for  he  cocked 
his  head  to  one  side,  and  looked  almost  volcanic  for  a  moment 
over  the  tiny  glass  in  his  hand.  Craven  described  the  res- 
taurant, the  company,  the  general  atmosphere,  the  chianti  and 
Toscanas,  and,  proceeding  with  artful  ingenuity,  at  last  came 
to  his  climax — Lady  Sellingworth  and  Miss  Van  Tuyn  in  their 
corner  with  their  feet  on  the  sanded  floor  and  a  smoking  dish 
of  Risotto  alia  Milanese  before  them, 

"Adela  Sellingworth  in  Soho!  Adela  Sellingworth  in  the 
midst  of  such  a  society !"  exclaimed  the  world's  governess  with 
unfeigned  astonishment.  "What  could  have  induced  her — but, 
to  be  sure.  Beryl  Van  Tuyn  is  famous  for  her  escapades,  and 
for  bringing  the  most  unlikely  people  into  them.  I  remembsr 
once  in  Paris  she  actually  induced  Madame  Marretti  to  go  to 
—ha— ah !" 

He  pulled  himself  up  short. 

"These  Martinis  are  surely  very  strong !"  he  murmured  into 
his  beard  reproachfully. 

"I  don't  think  so." 


CHAPTER  II  DECEMBER  LOVE  137 

"My  doctor  tells  me  that  all  cocktails  are  rank  poison.  They 
set  up  fermentation." 

"In  the  mind  ?"  asked  Craven. 

"No — no — in  the — they  cause  indigestion,  in  fact.  How 
poor  Adela  Sellingworth  must  have  hated  it !" 

"I  don't  think  she  did.  She  seemed  quite  at  home.  Besides, 
she  has  been  to  many  of  the  Paris  cafes.     She  told  me  so." 

"It  must  have  been  a  long  time  ago.  And  in  Paris  it  is  all 
so  different.    And  you  sat  with  them  ?" 

Craven  recounted  the  tale  of  the  previous  evening.  When 
he  came  to  the  Cafe  Royal  suggestion  the  world's  governess 
looked  really  outraged. 

"Adela  Sellingworth  at  the  Cafe  Royal!"  he  said.  "How 
could  Beryl  Van  Tuyn?  And  with  a  Bolshevik,  a  Turkish 
refugee — from  Smyrna  too!" 

"There  were  to  be  Georgians  for  chaperons." 

"Georgians !"  said  Braybrooke,  with  almost  sharp  vivacity. 
"I  really  hate  that  word.  We  are  all  subjects  of  King  George. 
No  one  has  a  right  to  claim  a  monopoly  of  the  present  reign. 
I — waiter,  bring  me  two  more  dry  Martinis,  please." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"What  was  I  saying?  Oh,  yes — about  that  preposterous 
claim  of  certain  groups  and  coteries !  If  anybody  is  a  Georgian 
we  are  all  Georgians  together.  I  am  a  Georgian,  if  it  comes 
to  that." 

"Why  not?     But  Lady  Sellingworth  is  definitely  not  one." 

"How  so?  I  must  deny  that,  really,  I  know  these  young 
poets  and  painters  like  to  imagine  that  everyone  who  has  had 
the  great  honour  of  living  under  Queen  Victoria " 

"Forgive  me !     It  isn't  that  at  all." 

"Well,  then — oh,  our  dry  Martinis!  How  much  is  it, 
waiter  ?" 

"Two  shillings,  sir." 

"Two — thank  you.  Well,  then.  Craven,  I  affirm  that  Lady 
Sellingworth  is  as  much  a  Georgian  as  any  young  person  who 
writes  bad  poetry  in  Cheyne  Walk  or  paints  impossible  pictures 
in  Glebe  Place." 

"She  would  deny  that.  She  said,  in  my  presence  and  in 
that  of  Sir  Seymour  Portman  and  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  that  she 
did  not  belong  to  this  age." 


138  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

"What  an — what  an  extraordinary  statement!"  said  Bray- 
brooke,  drinking  down  his  second  cocktail  at  a  gulp. 

"She  said  she  was — or  rather,  had  been — an  Edwardian.  She 
would  not  have  it  that  she  belonged  to  the  present  day  at  all." 

"A  whim !  It  must  have  been  a  whim  !  The  best  of  women 
are  subject  to  caprice.  It  is  the  greatest  mistake  to  class  your- 
self as  belonging  to  the  past.  It  dates  you.  It — it — it  prac- 
tically inters  you!" 

"I  think  she  meant  that  her  glory  was  Edwardian,  that  her 
real  life  was  then.  I  don't  think  she  chooses  to  realize  how 
immensely  attractive  she  is  now  in  the  Georgian  days." 

"Well,  I  really  can't  understand  such  a  view.  I  shall — when 
I  meet  her — I  shall  really  venture  to  remonstrate  with  her 
about  it.  And  besides,  apart  from  the  personal  question,  one 
owes  something  to  one's  contemporaries.  Upon  my  word,  I 
begin  to  understand  at  last  why  certain  very  charming  women 
haven't  a  good  word  to  say  for  Adela  Sellingworth." 

"You  mean  the  'old  guard,'  I  suppose?" 

"I  don't  wish  to  mention  any  names.  It  is  always  a  mistake 
to  mention  names.  One  cannot  guard  against  it  too  carefully. 
But  having  done  what  she  did  ten  years  ago  dear  Adela  Selling- 
worth  should  really — but  it  is  not  for  me  to  criticise  her.  Only 
there  is  nothing  people — women — are  more  sensitive  about  than 
the  question  of  age.  No  one  likes  to  be  laid  on  the  shelf. 
Adela  Sellingworth  has  chosen  to — well — one  might  almost  say 
to  retire  from  life,  but  there  are  others  who  feel  such  a 
very  drastic  step  to  be  quite  uncalled  for — quite  uncalled  for. 
And  so — but  you  haven't  told  me!  Did  Adela  Sellingworth 
allow  herself  to  be  persuaded  to  go  to  the  Cafe  Royal  ?" 

"No,  she  didn't." 

"Thank  God  for  that!"  said  the  world's  governess,  looking 
intensely  relieved. 

"I  escorted  her  to  Berkeley  Square." 

"Good!  good!" 

"But  we  walked  to  the  door  of  the  Cafe  Royal." 

"What — down  Shaftesbury  Avenue?" 

"Yes !" 

"Past  the  Cafe  Monico  and — Piccadilly  Circus?" 

"Yes!" 

"What  time  was  it?" 


CHAPTER  n  DECEMBER  LOVE  139 

"Well  after  ten." 

"Very  unsuitable !  I  must  say  that — very  unsuitable !  That 
corner  by  the  Monico  at  night  is  simply  chock-a-block — I — I 
should  say,  teems,  that's  the  word — teems  with  people  whom 
nobody  knows  or  could  ever  wish  to  know.  Beryl  Van  Tuyn 
should  really  be  more  careful.  She  grows  quite  reckless.  And 
Adela  Sellingworth  is  so  tall  and  unmistakable.  I  do  hope 
nobody  saw  her." 

"I'm  afraid  scores  of  people  did." 

"No,  no !    I  mean  people  she  knows — ^women  especially." 

"I  don't  think  she  would  care." 

"Her  friends  would  care  for  her!"  retorted  Braybrooke, 
almost  severely.  "To  retire  from  life  is  all  very  well.  I 
confess  I  think  it  a  mistake.  But  that  is  merely  one  man's 
opinion.  But  to  retire  from  life,  a  great  life  such  as  hers 
was,  and  then  after  ten  years  to  burst  forth  into — into  the 
type  of  existence  represented  by  Shaftesbury  Avenue  and  the 
Cafe  Royal,  that  would  be  unheard  of,  and  really  almost  un- 
forgivable." 

"It  would,  in  fact,  be  old  wildness,"  said  Craven,  with  a 
faint  touch  of  sarcasm. 

"Old  wildness !    What  a  very  strange  expression !" 

"But  I  think  it  covers  the  suggested  situation.  And  we 
know  what  old  wildness  is — or  if  we  don't  some  of  the  'old 
guard'  can  teach  us.  But  Lady  Sellingworth  will  never  be 
the  one  to  give  us  such  a  horrible  lesson.  If  there  is  a  woman 
in  London  with  true  dignity,  dignity  of  the  soul,  she  has  it. 
She  has  almost  too  much  of  it  even,  I  could  almost  wish  she 
had  less." 

Braybrooke  looked  suddenly  surprised  and  then  alertly  ob- 
servant. 

"Less  dignity?"  he  queried,  after  a  slight  but  significant 
pause. 

"Yes." 

"But  can  a  grande  dame,  as  she  is,  ever  have  too  much  dig- 
nity of  the  soul?" 

"I  think  even  such  a  virtue  as  that  can  be  carried  to  mor- 
bidity. It  may  become  a  weapon  against  the  happiness  of  the 
one  who  has  it.  Those  who  have  no  dignity  are  disgusting. 
As  Lady  Sellingworth  said  to  me,  they  create  nausea " 


140  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

"Nausea!"  interrupted  Braybrooke,  in  an  almost  startled 
voice. 

"Yes — in  others.  But  those  who  have  too  much  dignity- 
wrap  themselves  up  in  a  secret  reserve,  and  reserve  shuts 
out  natural  happiness,  I  think,  and  creates  loneliness.  I'm 
sure  Lady  Sellingworth  feels  terribly  alone  in  that  beautiful 
house.    I  know  she  does." 

"Has  she  told  you  so?" 

"Good  heavens — no.    But  she  never  would." 

"She  need  not  be  alone,"  observed  Braybrooke.  "She  could 
have  a  companion  to-morrow." 

"I  can't  imagine  her  with  a  Fanny  Cronin." 

"I  don't  mean  a  dame  de  compagnie.    I  mean  a  husband." 

Craven's  ardent  blue  eyes  looked  a  question. 

"Seymour  Portman  is  always  there  waiting  and  hoping." 

"Sir  Seymour?"  cried  Craven. 

"Well,  why  not?"  said  Braybrooke,  almost  with  severity. 
"Why  not?" 

"But  his  age!" 

The  world's  governess,  who  was  older  than  Sir  Seymour, 
though  not  a  soul  knew  it,  looked  more  severe. 

"His  age  would  be  in  every  way  suitable  to  Adela  Selling- 
worth's,"  he  said  firmly. 

"Oh,  but " 

"Goon!" 

"I  can't  see  an  old  man  like  Sir  Seymour  as  her  husband. 
Oh,  no!  It  wouldn't  do.  She  would  never  marry  such  an 
old  man.    I  am  certain  of  that." 

Braybrooke  pinched  his  lips  together  and  felt  for  his  beard. 

"I  hope,"  he  said,  lifting  and  lowering  his  bushy  eyebrows, 
"I  hope,  at  any  rate,  she  will  never  be  so  foolish  as  to  marry 
a  man  who  is  what  is  called  young.  That  would  be  a  terrible 
mistake,  both  for  her  and  for  him.  Now  I  really  must  be  going. 
I  am  dining  to-night  rather  early  with — oh,  by  the  way,  it 
is  with  one  of  your  chiefs — Eric  Learington.  A  good  fellow 
— a  good  fellow !  We  are  going  to  some  music  afterwards  at 
Queen's  Hall.     Good-bye.     I'm  very  glad  you  realize  Adela 

Sellingworth's  great  distinction  and  charm.     But "     He 

paused,  as  if  considering  something  carefully ;  then  he  added : 

"But  don't  forget  that  she  and  Seymour  Portman  would  be 


CHAPTER  II  DECEMBER  LOVE  141 

perfectly  suitable  to  one  another.  She  is  a  delightful  creature, 
but  she  is  no  longer  a  young  woman.  But  I  need  not  tell 
you  that." 

And  having  thus  done  the  needless  thing  he  went  away, 
walking  with  a  certain  unwonted  self-consciousness  which  had 
its  source  solely  in  dry  Martinis. 


I 


CHAPTER  III 

CRAVEN  realized  that  he  had  "given  himself  away"  directly 
Braybrooke  was  gone.  The  two  empty  glasses  stood  on  a 
low  table  in  front  of  his  chair.  He  looked  at  them  and  for  an 
instant  was  filled  with  anger  against  himself.  To  be  immortal 
— he  was  old-fashioned  enough  to  believe  surreptitiously  in  his 
own  immortality — and  yet  to  be  deflected  from  the  straight 
path  of  good  sense  by  a  couple  of  dry  Martinis !  It  was  hu- 
miliating, and  he  raged  against  himself. 

Braybrooke  had  certainly  gone  away  thinking  that  he,  Craven, 
had  fallen  in  love  with  Lady  Sellingworth.  That  thought,  too, 
might  possibly  have  come  out  of  one  of  those  little  glasses, 
the  one  on  the  left.  But  nevertheless  it  would  stick  in  Bray- 
brooke's  mind  long  after  the  Martinis  were  forgotten. 

And  what  if  it  did? 

Craven  said  that  to  himself,  but  he  felt  far  less  defiant  than 
sensitively  uncomfortable.  He  was  surprised  by  himself.  Evi- 
dently he  had  not  known  his  own  feelings.  When  Braybrooke 
mentioned  Seymour  Portman  as  a  suitable  husband  for  Lady 
Sellingworth  something  strong,  almost  violent,  had  risen  up 
in  Craven  to  protest.  What  was  that?  And  why  was  he  sud- 
denly so  angry?  He  was  surely  not  going  to  make  a  fool 
of  himself.  He  felt  almost  youthfully  alarmed  and  also  rather 
excited.  An  odd  sense  of  romance  suddenly  floated  about 
him.  Did  that  too  come  from  those  cursed  dry  Martinis?  Im- 
possible to  be  sure  for  the  moment.  He  found  himself  won- 
dering whether  teetotallers  knew  more  about  their  souls  than 
moderate  drinkers,  or  less. 

But  the  odd  sense  of  romance  persisted  when  the  effect  of 
the  dry  Martinis  must  certainly  have  worn  off.  It  was  some- 
thing such  as  Craven  had  never  known,  or  even  imagined, 
before.  He  had  had  his  little  adventures,  and  about  them  had 
thrown  the  woven  robes  that  gleam  with  prismatic  colours ;  he 
had  even  had  deeper,  passionate  episodes — as  he  thought  them 

142 


CHAPTER  III  DECEMBER  LOVE  148 

— in  his  life.  As  he  had  acknowledged  in  the  Ristorante  Bella 
Napoli  he  had  seldom  or  never  started  on  a  journey  abroad 
without  a  secret  hope  of  romance  meeting  him  on  the  way. 
And  sometimes  it  had  met  him.  Or  so  he  had  believed  at 
the  time.  But  in  all  these  episodes  of  the  past  there  had  been 
something  definitely  physical,  something  almost  horribly  nat- 
ural, a  prompting  of  the  body,  the  kind  of  thing  which  belongs 
to  youth,  any  youth,  and  which  any  doctor  could  explain  in 
a  few  crude  words.  Even  then,  in  those  now  dead  moments, 
Craven  had  sometimes  felt  sensitive  youth's  impotent  anger 
at  being  under  the  yoke  which  is  laid  upon  the  necks  of  innu- 
merable others,  clever,  dull,  aristocratic,  common,  the  elect  and 
the  hopelessly  vulgar. 

In  this  new  episode  he  was  emancipated  from  that.  He 
was  able  to  feel  that  he  was  peculiar,  if  not  unique.  In  the 
strong  attraction  which  drew  him  towards  Lady  Sellingworth 
there  was  certainly  nothing  of  the — well,  to  himself  he  called 
it  "the  medically  physical."  Something  of  the  body  there  might 
possibly  be.  Indeed,  perhaps  it  was  impossible  that  there  should 
not  be.  But  the  predominant  factor  had  nothing  whatever 
to  do  with  the  body.     He  felt  certain  of  that. 

When  he  got  home  from  the  Club  he  found  on  his  table  a 
note  from  Beryl  Van  Tuyn : 

Hyde  Park  Hotel, 

Thursday. 

My  dear  Mr.  Craven, — What  a  pity  you  couldn't  get  away  last  night. 
But  you  were  quite  right  to  play  Squire  of  Dames  to  our  dear  Lady 
Sellingworth.  We  had  a  rather  wonderful  evening  after  you  had 
gone.  Dick  Garstin  was  in  his  best  vein.  Green  chartreuse  brings 
out  his  genius  in  a  wonderful  way.  I  wish  it  would  do  for  me  what 
it  does  for  him.  But  I  have  tried  it — in  small  doses — quite  in  vain. 
He  and  I  walked  home  together  and  talked  of  everything  under  the 
stars.  I  believe  he  is  going  to  paint  me.  Next  time  you  make  your 
way  to  the  Bella  Napoli  we  might  go  together.  Two  lovers  of  Italy 
must  always  feel  at  home  there,  and  the  sight  of  Vesuvius  is  encourag- 
ing, I  think.  So  don't  forget  that  my  "beat,"  as  you  call  it,  often  lies 
in  Soho. 

Isn't  dear  Adela  Sellingworth  delightful?  She  looked  like  a  won- 
derful antique  in  that  Italian  frame.  I  love  every  line  in  her  face  and 
would  give  my  best  bronze  to  have  white  hair  like  hers.  But  somehow 
I  am  almost  glad  she  didn't  fall  to  the  Cafe  Royal.  She  is  right.  It 
is  too  Georgian  for  her.    She  is,  as  she  says,  definitely  Edwardian  and 


144  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

would  scarcely  understand  the  new  jargon  which  comes  as  easily  as 
how  d'you  do  to  our  lips. 

By  the  way,  coming  out  of  the  Caf6  Royal  last  night  I  saw  a  living 
bronze. — Yours, 

Beryl  Van  Tuyn. 

This  note  half  amused  and  half  irritated  Craven  on  a  first 
reading.  On  a  second  reading  irritation  predominated  in  him. 
Miss  Van  Tuyn's  determined  relegation  of  Lady  Sellingworth 
to  the  past  seemed  somehow  to  strike  at  him,  to  make  him — 
or  to  intend  to  make  him — ridiculous ;  and  her  deliberate  class- 
ing of  him  with  herself  in  the  underlined  "our"  seemed  rather 
like  an  attempt  to  assert  authority,  the  authority  of  youth, 
over  him.  But  no  doubt  this  was  very  natural.  Craven  was 
quite  sure  that  Miss  Van  Tuyn  cared  nothing  about  him.  But 
he  was  a  not  disagreeable  and  quite  presentable  young  man; 
he  had  looked  into  her  violet  eyes,  had  pressed  her  hand,  had 
held  it  longer  than  was  at  all  necessary,  had  in  fact  shown 
that  he  was  just  a  young  man  and  easily  susceptible ;  and  so 
she  did  not  choose  to  let  an  elderly  woman  take  possession 
of  him  even  for  an  hour  without  sharpening  a  weapon  or  two 
and  bringing  them  into  use. 

No  wonder  that  men  are  conceited  when  women  so  swiftly 
take  up  arms  on  their  account ! 

For  a  moment  Craven  almost  disliked  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  and 
made  up  his  mind  that  there  would  be  no  "next  time"  for  him 
in  Soho  while  she  was  in  London.  He  knew  that  whenever 
they  met  he  would  feel  her  attraction;  but  he  now  classed 
it  with  those  attractions  of  the  past  which  were  disgustingly 
explicable,  and  which  just  recently  he  had  learnt  to  understand 
in  a  way  that  was  almost  old. 

Was  he  putting  on  horn  spectacles  while  his  eyesight  was 
still  unimpaired?  He  felt  doubtful,  almost  confused  for  a 
moment.  Was  his  new  feeling  for  Lady  Sellingworth  subtly 
pulling  him  away  from  his  youth  ?  Where  was  he  going  ?  Per- 
haps this  new  sensation  of  movement  was  only  deceptive; 
perhaps  he  was  not  on  the  way  to  an  unknown  region.  For 
a  moment  he  wished  that  he  could  talk  freely,  openly,  with 
some  understanding  friend,  a  man  of  course.  But  though  he 
had  plenty  of  men  friends  he  could  not  think  of  one  he  would 
be  able  to  confide  his  present  feelings  to. 


CHAPTER  in  DECEMBER  LOVE  14.6 

Already  he  began  to  realize  the  human  ridicule  which  always 
attends  upon  any  departure  from  what,  according  to  the  deci- 
sion of  all  absolutely  ordinary  people,  is  strictly  normal. 

Everybody  would  understand  and  approve  if  he  were  to  fall 
desperately  in  love  with  Beryl  Van  Tuyn;  but  if  he  were  to 
prefer  a  great  friendship  with  Lady  Sellingworth  to  a  love 
affair  with  her  youthful  and  beautiful  friend  no  one  would 
understand,  and  everybody  would  be  ready  to  laugh  and  con- 
demn. 

He  knew  this  and  yet  he  felt  obstinate,  mulish  almost,  as 
he  sat  down  to  reply  non-committally  to  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  letter. 
It  was  only  when  he  did  this  that  he  thought  seriously  about 
its  last  words. 

Why  had  she  troubled  to  write  them  down?  Comparatively 
young  though  he  was  he  knew  that  a  woman's  "by  the  way" 
usually  means  anything  rather  than  what  it  seems  to  mean — 
namely,  a  sentence  thrown  out  by  chance  because  it  has  just 
happened  to  turn  up  in  the  mind.  "A  living  bronze."  Miss 
Van  Tuyn  was  exceptionally  fond  of  bronzes  and  collected  them 
with  enthusiasm.  She  knew  of  course  the  Museum  at  Naples. 
Craven  had  often  visited  it  when  he  had  been  staying  at  the 
Villa  Rosebery.  He  could  remember  clearly  almost  every 
important  bronze  in  that  wonderful  collection.  He  realized 
what  "a  living  bronze"  must  mean  when  written  of  by  a  woman. 
Miss  Van  Tuyn  had  evidently  seen  an  amazingly  handsome 
man  coming  out  of  the  Cafe  Royal.  But  why  should  she 
tell  him  about  it?  Perhaps  her  motive  was  the  very  ordinary 
one,  an  attempt  to  rouse  the  swift  jealousy  of  the  male  ani- 
mal. She  was  certainly  "up"  to  all  the  usual  feminine  tricks. 
He  thoroughly  realized  her  vanity  and,  contrasting  it  with  Lady 
Sellingworth's  apparently  almost  careless  lack  of  self-conscious- 
ness, he  wondered  whether  Lady  Sellingworth  could  ever  have 
been  what  she  was  said  to  have  been.  If  so,  as  a  snake  sheds 
its  skin  she  must  surely  have  sloughed  her  original  nature. 
He  was  thankful  for  that,  thankful  for  her  absolute  lack  of 
pose  and  vanity.  He  even  delighted  in  her  self-mockery,  di- 
vined by  him.  So  few  women  mocked  at  themselves  and  so 
many  mocked  at  others. 

If  Miss  Van  Tuyn  had  intended  to  give  a  flick  to  his  jealousy 
at  the  end  of  her  letter  she  had  failed.     If  she  met  fifty 


146  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

living  bronzes  and  added  them  to  her  collection  it  was  nothing 
to  him.  He  compared  his  feeling  when  Braybrooke  had  sug- 
gested Seymour  Portman  as  a  husband  for  Lady  Sellingworth 
with  his  lack  of  feeling  about  Miss  Van  Tuyn  and  her  bronze, 
and  he  was  almost  startled.  And  yet  Miss  Van  Tuyn  was 
lovely  and  certainly  did  not  want  him  to  go  quite  away  out 
of  her  ken.  And,  when  she  chose,  she  had  made  him  very  fool- 
ish about  her. 

What  did  it  all  mean? 

He  wrote  a  little  letter  in  answer  to  hers,  charmingly  polite, 
but  rather  vague  about  Soho.  At  the  end  of  it,  before  sign- 
ing himself  "Yrs" — he  could  do  no  less  with  her  letter  before 
him — he  put,  "I  feel  rather  intrigued  about  the  living  bronze. 
Was  it  in  petticoats  or  trousers?" 


CHAPTER  IV 

CRAVEN  had  been  right  in  his  supposition  about  the  world's 
governess.  Braybrooke  had  gone  away  from  the  Club 
that  evening  firmly  persuaded  that  his  young  friend  had  done 
the  almost  unbelievable  thing,  had  fallen  in  love  with  Adela 
Sellingworth.  He  was  really  perturbed  about  it.  A  tremu- 
lous sense  of  the  fitness  of  things  governed  his  whole  life, 
presided  as  it  were  over  all  his  actions  and  even  over  most 
of  his  thoughts.  He  instinctively  shrank  from  everything  that 
was  bizarre,  from  everything  that  was,  as  he  called  it,  "out  of 
keeping."  He  was  responsible  for  the  introduction  of  young 
Craven  into  Adela  Sellingworth's  life.  It  would  be  very  un- 
fortunate indeed,  it  would  be  almost  disastrous,  if  the  result 
of  that  well-meant  introduction  were  to  be  a  preposterous 
passion ! 

When  the  effect  of  the  two  cocktails  had  subsided  he  tried 
to  convince  himself  that  he  was  giving  way  to  undue  anxiety, 
that  there  was  really  nothing  in  his  supposition  except  alcohol 
taken  in  the  afternoon.  But  this  effort  failed.  He  had  lived 
a  very  long  time,  much  longer  than  almost  anyone  knew;  he 
was  intimately  familiar  with  the  world,  and,  although  unyield- 
ingly discreet  himself,  was  well  acquainted  with  its  follies  and 
sins.  Life  had  taught  him  that  practically  nothing  is  impossible. 
He  had  known  old  men  to  run — or  rather  to  walk — off  with 
young  girls;  he  had  known  old  women  to  be  infatuated  with 
mere  boys ;  he  had  known  well-bom  women  to  marry  grooms 
and  chauffeurs;  a  Peer  of  his  acquaintance  had  linked  him- 
self to  a  cabman's  daughter  and  stuck  to  her;  chorus  girls  of 
course  perpetually  married  into  the  Peerage ;  human  passions — . 
although  he  could  not  understand  it — ran  as  wild  as  the  roots 
of  eucalyptus  trees  planted  high  within  reach  of  water.  So  he 
could  not  rule  out  as  impossible  a  sudden  affection  for  Adela 
Sellingworth  in  the  heart  of  young  Craven.     It  was  really 

147 


14,8  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

very  unfortunate.  Feeling  responsible,  he  thought  perhaps  he 
ought  to  do  something  discreetly.    The  question  was — what  ? 

Braybrooke  was  inclined  to  be  a  matchmaker,  though  he 
had  neglected  to  make  one  match,  his  own.  Thinking  things 
over  now,  he  said  to  himself  that  it  was  quite  time  young 
Craven  settled  down.  He  was  a  very  promising  fellow.  Eric 
Learington,  of  whom  he  had  made  some  casual  inquiries  dur- 
ing the  interval  between  the  two  parts  of  the  concert  at  Queen's 
Hall,  had  spoken  quite  warmly  about  Craven's  abilities,  industry 
and  ambition.  No  doubt  the  young  man  would  go  far.  But 
he  ought  to  have  a  clever  wife  with  some  money  to  help 
him.  A  budding  diplomatist  needs  a  wife  more  than  most  men. 
He  is  destined  to  do  much  entertaining.  Social  matters  are  a 
part  of  his  duty,  of  his  career.  A  suitable  wife  was  clearly 
indicated  for  young  Craven.  And  it  occurred  to  the  world's 
governess  that  as  he  had  apparently  done  harm  unwittingly, 
or  approached  the  doing  of  harm,  by  introducing  Craven  to 
dear  Adela  Sellingworth,  it  was  incumbent  on  him  to  try  to  do 
good,  if  possible,  by  now  knocking  the  harm  on  the  head,  of 
course  gently,  as  a  well-bred  man  does  things. 

Beryl  Van  Tuyn  came  into  his  mind. 

As  he  had  told  Craven,  he  knew  her  quite  well  and  knew 
all  about  her.  She  came  of  an  excellent  American  family  in 
Philadelphia.  She  was  the  only  child  of  parents  who  could  not 
get  on  together,  and  who  were  divorced.  Both  her  father  and 
mother  had  married  again.  The  former  lived  in  New  York  in 
Fifth  Avenue ;  the  latter,  who  was  a  beauty,  was  usually  some- 
where in  Europe — now  on  the  Riviera,  now  in  Rome,  at  Aix, 
in  Madrid,  in  London.  She  sometimes  visited  Paris,  but  seldom 
stayed  long  anywhere.  She  professed  to  be  fond  of  Beryl,  but 
the  truth  was  that  Beryl  was  far  too  good  looking  to  be  desir- 
able as  her  companion.  She  loved  her  child  intensely — at  a 
distance.  Beryl  was  quite  satisfied  to  be  at  a  distance,  for  she 
had  a  passion  for  independence.  Her  father  gave  her  an  ample 
allowance.  Her  mother  had  long  ago  unearthed  Fanny  Cronin 
from  some  lair  in  Philadelphia  to  be  her  official  companion. 

Braybrooke  knew  all  this,  knew  about  how  much  money 
Miss  Van  Tuyn  had,  and  about  how  much  she  would  even- 
tually have.  Without  being  vulgarly  curious,  he  somehow 
usually  got  to  know  almost  everything. 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  149 

Beryl  Van  Tuyn  would  be  just  the  wife  for  young  Craven 
when  she  had  settled  down.  She  was  too  independent,  too 
original,  too  daring,  and  far  too  unconventional  for  Bray- 
brooke's  way  of  thinking.  But  he  believed  her  to  be  really 
quite  all  right.  Modern  Americans  held  views  about  personal 
liberty  which  were  not  at  all  his,  but  that  did  not  mean  that 
they  were  not  entirely  respectable.  Beryl  Van  Tuyn  was  clever, 
beautiful,  had  plenty  of  money.  As  a  diplomatist's  wife,  when 
she  had  settled  down,  she  would  be  quite  in  her  element. 
After  some  anxious  thought  he  decided  that  it  was  his  duty 
to  try  to  pull  strings. 

The  ascertained  fact  that  Craven  had  met  Adela  Sellingworth 
and  Beryl  Van  Tuyn  on  the  same  day  and  together,  and  that 
the  woman  of  sixty  had  evidently  attracted  him  far  more  than 
the  radiant  girl  of  twenty-four,  did  not  deter  Braybrooke  from 
his  enterprise.  His  long  experience  of  the  world  had  led  him 
to  know  that  human  beings  can,  and  perpetually  do,  interfere 
successfully  in  each  other's  affairs,  help  in  the  making  of  what 
are  called  destinies,  head  each  other  ofif  from  the  prosecution  of 
designs,  in  fact  play  Providence  and  the  Devil  to  each  other. 

His  laudable  intention  was  to  play  Providence. 

On  the  following  day  he  considered  it  his  social  duty  to 
pay  a  call  at  Number  i8a,  Berkeley  Square.  Dear  Adela  Sell- 
ingworth would  certaintly  wish  to  know  how  things  were  going 
in  Paris.  Although  she  now  never  went  there,  and  in  fact 
never  went  anywhere,  she  still,  thank  God,  had  an  interest  in 
what  was  going  on  in  the  world.  It  would  be  his  pleasure  to 
gratify  it. 

He  found  her  at  home  and  alone.  But  before  he  was  taken 
upstairs  the  butler  said  he  was  not  sure  whether  her  ladyship 
was  seeing  anyone  and  must  just  find  out.  He  went  away 
to  do  so,  and  returned  with  an  affirmative  answer. 

When  Braybrooke  came  into  the  big  drawing-room  on  the 
first  floor  he  fancied  that  his  friend  was  looking  older,  and 
even  paler,  than  usual.  As  he  took  her  hand  he  thought,  "Can 
I  be  right?  Is  it  possible  that  Craven  can  imagine  himself 
in  love  with  her?" 

It  was  an  uncomplimentary  thought,  and  he  tried  to  put  it 
from  him  as  singularly  unsuitable,  and  indeed  almost  out- 
rageous at  this  moment,  but  it  would  not  go.     It  defied  him 


150  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

and  stuck  firmly  in  his  mind.  In  his  opinion  Adela  Selling- 
worth  was  the  most  truly  distinguished  woman  in  London.  But 
that  she  should  attract  a  young  man,  almost  indeed  a  boy,  in 
that  way !    It  did  really  seem  utterly  impossible. 

In  answer  to  his  inquiry,  Lady  Sellingworth  acknowledged 
that  she  had  not  been  feeling  very  well  during  the  last  two 
days. 

"Perhaps  you  have  been  doing  too  much?"  he  suggested. 

The  mocking  look  came  into  her  eyes. 

"But  what  do  I  ever  do  now?"  she  said.  "I  lie  quietly  on 
my  shelf.    That  surely  can't  be  very  exhausting." 

"No  one  would  ever  connect  you  with  being  laid  on  the 
shelf,"  said  Braybrooke;  "you  personality  forbids  that.  Be- 
sides, I  hear  that  you  have  been  having  quite  a  lively  time." 

He  paused — it  was  his  conception  of  the  pause  dramatic — 
then  added: 

"At  the  foot  of  a  volcano!" 

"Ah!  you  have  heard  about  Vesuvius!" 

"Yes." 

"What  a  marvellous  gatherer  of  news  you  are!  Beryl  Van 
Tuyn?" 

"No.  I  happened  to  meet  young  Craven  at  the  St.  James's 
Qub,  and  he  told  me  of  your  excursion  into  Bohemia." 

"Bohemia!"  she  said.  "I  haven't  set  foot  in  that  entertain- 
ing country  since  I  gave  up  my  apartment  in  Paris.  Soho  is 
beyond  its  borders.  But  I  confess  to  Soho.  Beryl  persuaded 
me,  and  I  really  quite  enjoyed  it.  The  coffee  was  delicious, 
and  the  hairdressers  put  their  souls  into  their  guitars.  But  I 
doubt  if  I  shall  go  there  again." 

"It  tired  you?  The  atmosphere  in  those  places  is  so 
mephitic." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mind  that.  Besides,  we  blew  it  away  by  walk- 
ing home,  at  least  part  of  the  way  home." 

"Down  Shaftesbury  Avenue?  That  was  surely  rather  dan- 
gerous." 

"Dangerous!    Why?" 

"The  sudden  change  from  stuffiness  to  cold  and  damp. 
Craven  spoke  of  Toscanas.  And  those  cheap  restaurants  are 
so  very  small  and  badly  ventilated." 

"Oh,  we  enjoyed  our  walk." 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  151 

"That's  good.  Craven  was  quite  enthusiastic  about  the 
evening." 

Again  the  pause  dramatic ! 

"He's  a  nice  boy.  I  hope  you  liked  him.  I  feel  a  little 
responsible " 

"Do  you?    But  why?" 

"Because  I  ventured  to  introduce  him  to  you." 

"Oh,  don't  worry.    I  assure  you  I  like  him  very  much." 

Her  tone  was  very  casual,  but  quite  cordial. 

"Well,  he  was  enthusiastic  about  the  evening,  said  it  was  like 
a  bit  of  Italy.  You  know  he  was  once  at  the  embassy  in 
Rome." 

"Yes.    He  told  me  so." 

"I  hear  very  good  accounts  of  him  from  the  Foreign  Office. 
Eric  Learington  speaks  very  well  of  him.  He  ought  to  rise 
high  in  the  career." 

"I  hope  he  will.  I  like  to  see  clever  young  men  get  on.  And 
he  certainly  has  something  in  him." 

"Yes,  I  think  so  too.  By  the  way,  he  seems  tremendously 
taken  with  Miss  Van  Tuyn." 

As  the  world's  governess  said  this  he  let  his  small  hazel  eyes 
fix  themselves  rather  intently  on  Lady  Sellingworth's  face. 
He  saw  no  change  of  expression  there.  She  still  looked  tired, 
but  casual,  neither  specially  interested  nor  in  the  least  bored. 
Her  brilliant  eyes  still  held  their  slightly  mocking  expression. 

"Beryl  must  be  almost  irresistible  to  young  men,"  she  said. 
"She  combines  beauty  with  brains,  and  she  has  the  audacity 
which  nearly  always  appeals  to  youth.  Besides,  unconven- 
tionality  is  really  the  salt  of  our  over-civilized  life,  and  she  has 
it  in  abundance.  She  doesn't  merely  pretend  to  it.  It  is  part 
of  her." 

"She  may  grow  out  of  it  in  time." 

"I  hope  she  won't,"  said  Lady  Sellingworth,  rather  deci- 
sively.   "If  she  did  she  would  lose  a  great  deal  of  her  charm." 

"Well,  but  when  she  marries  ?" 

"Is  she  thinking  of  marrying?" 

"Girls  of  her  age  usually  are,  I  fancy." 

"If  she  marries  the  right  man  he  won't  mind  her  unconven- 
tionality.    He  may  even  enjoy  it." 

It  occurred  to  Braybrooke  that  Adela  Sellingworth  was  sup- 


152  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

posed  to  have  done  a  great  many  unconventional  things  at  one 
time.     Nevertheless  he  could  not  help  saying: 

"I  think  most  husbands  prefer  their  wives  to  keep  within 
bounds." 

"Beryl  may  never  marry,"  said  Lady  Sellingworth,  rather 
thoughtfully.    "She  is  an  odd  girl.    I  could  imagine " 

She  paused,  but  not  dramatically. 

"Yes?"  he  said,  with  gentle  insinuation. 

"I  could  imagine  her  choosing  to  live  a  life  of  her  own." 

"What,  like  Caroline  Briggs?"  he  said. 

Lady  Sellingworth  moved,  and  her  face  changed,  suddenly 
looked  more  expressive. 

"Ah,  Caroline!"  she  said.  "I  am  very  fond  of  her.  She  is 
one  in  a  thousand.  But  she  and  Beryl  are  quite  different  in 
character.  Caroline  lives  for  self-respect,  I  think.  And  Beryl 
lives  for  life.  Caroline  refuses,  but  Beryl  accepts  with  both 
hands." 

"Then  she  will  probably  accept  a  husband  some  day." 

Suddenly  Lady  Sellingworth  changed  her  manner.  She 
leaned  forward  towards  the  world's  governess,  smiled  at  him, 
and  said,  half  satirically,  half  confidentially : 

"Now  what  is  it  you  have  at  the  back  of  your  mind  ?" 

Braybrooke  was  slightly  taken  aback.  He  coughed  and  half 
closed  his  eyes,  then  gently  pulled  up  his  perfectly  creased 
trousers,  taking  hold  of  them  just  above  the  knees. 

"I  really  don't  think "  he  began. 

"You  and  I  are  old  friends.     Do  tell  me." 

He  certainly  had  not  come  intending  to  be  quite  frank,  and 
this  sudden  attack  rather  startled  him. 

"You  have  formed  some  project,"  she  continud.  "I  know  it. 
Now  let  me  guess  what  it  is." 

"But  I  assure  you " 

"You  have  found  someone  whom  you  think  would  suit  Berj'l 
as  a  husband.     Isn't  that  it?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  I  confess  it  had  just  occurred  to  me 
that  with  her  beautj',  her  cleverness,  and  her  money — for  one 
has  to  think  of  money,  unfortunately,  in  these  difficult  days — 
she  would  be  a  verj-  desirable  wife  for  a  rising  ambitious  man." 

"No  doubt.     And  who  is  he?" 

It  was  against  all  Braybrooke's  instincts  to  burst  out  abruptly 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  163 

into  the  open.  He  scarcely  knew  what  to  do.  But  he  was 
sufficiently  sharp  to  realize  that  Lady  Sellingworth  already 
knew  the  answer  to  her  question.  So  he  made  a  virtue  of 
necessity  and  replied : 

"It  had  merely  occurred  to  me,  after  noting  young  Craven's 
enthusiasm  about  her  beauty  and  cleverness,  that  he  might  suit 
her  very  well.  He  must  marry  and  marry  well  if  he  wishes  to 
rise  high  in  the  diplomatic  career." 

"Oh,  but  some  very  famous  diplomatists  have  been  bach- 
elors," she  said,  still  smiling. 

She  mentioned  two  or  three. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,  I  know,"  he  rejoined.  "But  it  is  really  a 
great  handicap.  If  anyone  needs  a  brilliant  wife  it  is  an 
ambassador. 

"You  think  Mr.  Craven  is  destined  to  become  an  am- 
bassador?" 

"I  don't  see  why  not — in  the  fullness  of  time,  of  course. 
Perhaps  you  don't  know  how  ambitious  and  hard-working 
he  is." 

"I  know  really  very  little  about  him." 

"His  abilities  are  excellent.  Learington  has  a  great  opinion 
of  him." 

"And  so  you  think  Beryl  would  suit  him !" 

"It  just  occurred  to  me.  I  wouldn't  say  more  than  that. 
I  have  a  horror  of  matchmaking." 

"Of  course.  Like  all  of  us !  Well,  you  may  be  right.  She 
seemed  to  like  him.  You  don't  want  me  to  do  anything,  I 
suppose  ?" 

"Oh,  no — no!"  he  exclaimed,  with  almost  unnecessary  ear- 
nestness, and  looking  even  slightly  embarrassed.  "I  only 
wished  to  know  your  opinion.  I  value  your  opinion  so  very 
highly." 

She  got  up  to  stir  the  fire.  He  sprang,  or  rather  got,  up  too, 
rather  quickly,  to  forestall  her.     But  she  persisted. 

"I  know  my  poker  so  well,"  she  said,  "it  will  do  things  for 
me  that  it  won't  do  for  anyone  else.     There !     That  is  better." 

She  remained  standing  by  the  hearth,  looking  tremendously 
tall. 

"I  don't  think  I  have  an  opinion,"  she  said.  "Beryl  would  be 
a  brilliant  wife  for  any  man.    Mr.  Craven  seems  a  very  pleasant 


154s  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

boy.  They  might  do  admirably  together.  Or  they  might  both 
be  perfectly  miserable.  I  can't  tell.  Now  do  tell  me  about 
Paris.     Did  you  see  Caroline  Briggs?" 

When  Braybrooke  left  Berkeley  Square  that  day  he  remem- 
bered having  once  said  to  Craven  that  Lady  Sellingworth  was 
interested  in  everything  that  was  interesting  except  in  love 
affairs,  that  she  did  not  seem  to  care  about  love  affairs.  And 
he  had  a  vague  feeling  of  having,  perhaps,  for  once  done  the 
wrong  thing.  Had  he  bored  her  ?  He  hoped  not.  But  he  was 
not  quite  sure. 

When  he  had  gone,  and  she  was  once  more  alone,  Lady 
Sellingworth  rang  the  bell.  A  tall  footman  came  in  answer  to  it, 
and  she  told  him  that  if  anyone  else  called  he  was  to  say,  "not 
at  home."  As  he  was  about  to  leave  the  room  after  receiving 
this  order  she  stopped  him. 

"Wait  a  moment." 

"Yes,  my  lady." 

She  seemed  to  hesitate ;  then  she  said : 

"If  Mr.  Craven  happens  to  call  I  will  see  him.  He  was  here 
two  nights  ago.     Do  you  know  him  by  sight?" 

"I  can't  say  I  do,  my  lady." 

"Ah!  You  were  not  in  the  hall  when  he  called  the  other 
day?" 

"No,  my  lady." 

"He  is  tall  with  dark  hair,  about  thirty  years  old.  Mur- 
gatroyd  is  not  in  to-day,  is  he  ?" 

"No,  my  lady." 

"Then  if  anyone  calls  like  the  gentleman  I  have  described, 
just  ask  him  his  name.  And  if  it  is  Mr.  Craven  you  can  let 
him  in." 

"Yes,  my  lady." 

The  footman  went  out.  A  clock  chimed  in  the  distance, 
where  the  piano  stood  behind  the  big  azalea.  It  was  half  past 
five.  Lady  Sellingworth  made  up  the  fire  again,  though  it  did 
not  really  need  mending;  then  she  stood  beside  it  with  one 
narrow  foot  resting  on  the  low  fender,  holding  her  black  dress 
up  a  little  with  her  left  hand. 

Was  Fate  going  to  leave  her  alone  ?  That  was  how  she  put  it 
to  herself.     Or  was  she  once  more  to  be  the  victim  of  a  tem- 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  155 

perament  which  she  had  sometimes  hoped  was  dying  out  of  her  ? 
In  these  last  few  years  she  had  suffered  less  and  less  from  it. 

She  had  made  a  grand  effort  of  will.  That  was  now  ten  years 
ago.  It  had  cost  her  more  than  anyone  would  ever  know ;  it 
had  cost  her  those  terrible  tears  of  blood  which  only  the  soul 
weeps.  But  she  had  persisted  in  her  effort.  A  horrible  inci- 
dent, humiliating  her  to  the  dust,  had  summoned  all  the  pride 
that  was  left  in  her.  In  a  sort  of  cold  frenzy  of  will  she  had 
flung  life  away  from  her,  the  life  of  the  woman  who  was  vain, 
who  would  have  worship,  who  would  have  the  desire  of  men, 
the  life  of  the  beauty  who  would  have  admiration.  All  that  she 
had  clung  to  she  had  abandoned  in  that  dreadful  moment,  had 
abandoned  as  by  night  a  terrified  being  leaves  a  dwelling  that  is 
in  flames.  Feeling  naked,  she  had  gone  out  from  it  into  the 
blackness.  And  for  ten  years  she  had  stuck  to  her  resolution, 
had  been  supported  by  the  strength  of  her  will  fortified  by  a 
hideous  memory.  She  had  grasped  her  nettle,  had  pressed  it  to 
her  bosom.  She  had  taken  to  her  all  the  semblance  of  old  age, 
loneliness,  dullness,  had  thrust  away  from  her  almost  every- 
thing which  she  had  formerly  lived  by.  For,  like  almost  all 
those  who  yield  themselves  to  a  terrific  spasm  of  will,  she  had 
done  more  than  it  was  necessary  for  her  to  do.  From  one 
extreme  she  had  gone  to  another.  As  once  she  had  tried  to 
emphasize  youth,  she  had  emphasized  the  loss  of  youth.  She 
had  cruelly  exposed  her  disabilities  to  an  astonished  world,  had 
flung  her  loss  of  beauty,  as  it  were,  in  the  faces  of  the  "old 
guard."  She  had  called  all  men  to  look  upon  the  ravages  Time 
had  brought  about  in  her.  Few  women  had  ever  done  what  she 
had  done. 

And  eventually  she  had  had  a  sort  of  reward.  Gradually  she 
had  been  enclosed  by  the  curious  tranquillity  that  habit,  if  not 
foolish  or  dangerous,  brings  to  the  human  being.  Her  tem- 
perament, which  had  long  been  her  enemy,  seemed  at  last  to  lie 
down  and  sleep.  There  were  times  when  she  had  wondered 
whether  perhaps  it  would  die.  And  she  had  come  upon  certain 
compensations  which  were  definite,  and  which  she  had  learnt 
how  to  value. 

By  slow  degrees  she  had  lost  the  exasperation  of  desire.  The 
lust  of  the  eye,  spoken  of  to  her  by  Caroline  Briggs  in  Paris  on 
the  evening  which  preceded  her  enlightenment,  had  ceased  to 


166  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

persecute  her  because  she  had  taught  herself  dehberately  the 
custody  of  the  eye.  She  had  eventually  attained  to  self-respect, 
even  to  a  quiet  sense  of  personal  dignity,  not  the  worldly 
dignity  of  the  grande  dame  aware  of  her  aristocratic  birth  and 
position  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  but  the  unworldly  dignity  of 
the  woman  who  is  keeping  her  womanhood  from  all  degrada- 
tion, or  possibility  of  degradation.  Very  often  in  those  days 
she  had  recalled  her  conversation  with  Caroline  Briggs  in  the 
Persian  room  of  the  big  house  in  the  Champs-Ely  sees.  Caro- 
line had  spoken  of  the  women  who  try  to  defy  the  natural  law, 
and  had  said  that  they  were  unhappy  women,  laughed  at  by 
youth,  even  secretly  jeered  at.  For  years  she,  Adela  Selling- 
worth,  had  been  one  of  those  women.  And  often  she  had  been 
very  unhappy.  That  misery  at  least  was  gone  from  her.  Her 
nerves  had  quieted  down.  She  who  had  been  horribly  restless 
had  learnt  to  be  still.  Sometimes  she  was  almost  at  peace. 
Often  and  often  she  had  said  to  herself  that  Caroline  was  right, 
that  the  price  paid  by  those  who  flung  away  their  dignity  of 
soul,  as  she  had  done  in  the  past,  was  terrible,  too  terrible  almost 
for  endurance.  At  last  she  could  respect  herself  as  she  was 
now;  at  last  she  could  tacitly  claim  and  hope  to  receive  the 
respect  of  others.  She  no  longer  decked  out  her  bones  in  jewels. 
Caroline  did  not  know  the  reason  of  the  great  and  startling 
change  in  her  and  in  her  way  of  life,  and  probably  supposed 
both  to  be  due  to  that  momentous  conversation.  Anyhow,  since 
then,  whenever  she  and  Lady  Sellingworth  had  met,  she  had 
been  extraordinarily  kind,  indeed,  almost  tender;  and  Lady 
Sellingworth  knew  that  Caroline  had  taken  her  part  against 
certain  of  the  "old  guard"  who  had  shown  almost  acute  ani- 
mosity. Caroline  Briggs  now  was  perhaps  Lady  Sellingworth's 
best  friend.  For  at  last  they  were  on  equal  terms ;  and  that  fact 
had  strengthened  their  friendship.  But  Caroline  was  quite 
safe,  and  Lady  Sellingworth  from  time  to  time  had  reaUzed  that 
for  her  life  might  possibly  still  hold  peculiar  dangers.  There 
had  been  moments  in  those  ten  years  of  temptation,  of  struggle, 
of  a  rending  of  the  heart  and  flesh,  which  nobody  knew  of  but 
herself.  But  as  the  time  went  on,  and  habit  more  and  more 
asserted  its  sway,  they  had  been  less  and  less  frequent.  Calm, 
resignation  had  grown  within  her.  There  was  none  of  the 
peace   that  passeth  understanding,   but   sometimes   there  was 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  157 

peace.     But  even  when  there  was,  she  was  never  quite  certain 
that  she  had  absolutely  conquered  herself. 

Men  and  women  may  not  know  themselves  thoroughly,  but 
they  usually  know  very  well  whether  they  have  finally  got  the 
better  of  a  once  dominating  tendency  or  vice,  or  whether  there 
is  still  a  possibility  of  their  becoming  again  its  victim.  In  com- 
plete victory  there  is  a  knowledge  which  nothing  can  shake  from 
its  throne.  That  knowledge  Lady  Sellingworth  had  never 
possessed.  She  hoped,  but  she  did  not  know.  For  sometimes, 
though  very  seldom,  the  old  wildness  seemed  to  stir  within  her 
like  a  serpent  uncoiling  itself  after  its  winter's  sleep.  Then 
she  was  frightened  and  made  a  great  effort,  an  effort  of  fear. 
She  set  her  heel  on  the  serpent,  and  after  a  time  it  lay  still. 
Sometimes,  too,  the  loneliness  of  her  life  in  her  spacious  and 
beautiful  house  became  almost  intolerable  to  her.  This  was 
especially  the  case  at  night.  She  did  not  care  to  show  a  hag- 
gard and  lined  face  and  white  hair  to  her  world  when  it  was  at 
play.  And  though  she  had  defied  the  "old  guard,"  she  did  not 
love  meeting  all  those  women  whom  she  knew  so  well,  and  who 
looked  so  much  younger  and  gayer  than  she  did.  So  she  had 
many  lonely  evenings  at  home,  when  her  servants  were  together 
below  stairs,  and  she  had  for  company  only  the  fire  and  a  book. 

The  dinner  in  Soho  had  been  quite  an  experience  for  her,  and 
though  she  had  taken  it  so  simply  and  casually,  had  seemed  so 
thoroughly  at  home  and  in  place  with  her  feet  on  the  sanded 
floor,  eating  to  the  sound  of  guitars,  she  had  really  been  in- 
wardly excited.  And  when  she  had  looked  up  and  seen  Craven 
gazing  towards  her  she  had  felt  an  odd  thrill  at  the  heart.  For 
she  had  known  Italy,  too,  as  well  as  she  had  known  Paris,  and 
had  memories  connected  with  Italy.  And  the  guitars  had 
spoken  to  her  of  days  and  nights  which  her  will  told  her  not  to 
think  of  any  more. 

And  now  ?  Was  Fate  going  to  leave  her  alone  ?  Or  was  she 
once  more  going  to  be  attacked?  Something  within  her,  no 
doubt  woman's  instinct,  scented  danger. 

Braybrooke's  visit  had  disturbed  her.  She  had  known  him 
for  years,  and  knew  the  type  of  man  he  was — careful,  discreet, 
but  often  very  busy.  He  had  a  kind  heart,  but  a  brain  which 
sometimes  wove  little  plots.  On  the  whole  he  was  a  sincere 
man,  except,  of  course,  sometimes  socially,  but  now  and  then 


168  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

he  found  it  necessary  to  tell  little  lies.  Had  he  told  her  a  little 
lie  that  day  about  young  Craven  and  Beryl  Van  Tuyn  ?  Had  he 
been  weaving  the  first  strands  of  a  little  plot — a  plot  like  a  net — 
and  was  it  his  intention  to  catch  her  in  it?  She  knew  he  had 
had  a  definite  motive  in  coming  to  see  her,  and  that  the  motive 
was  not  connected  with  his  visit  to  Paris. 

His  remarks  about  Craven  had  interested  her  because  she 
was  interested  in  Craven,  but  it  was  not  quite  clear  to  her  why 
Braybrooke  should  suddenly  concentrate  on  the  young  man's 
future,  nor  why  he  should,  with  so  much  precaution,  try  to  get 
at  her  opinion  on  the  question  of  Craven's  marriage.  When 
Braybrooke  had  first  spoken  to  her  of  Craven  he  had  not  im- 
plied that  he  and  Craven  were  specially  intimate,  or  that  he 
was  deeply  interested  in  Craven's  concerns  or  prospects.  He 
had  merely  told  her  that  Craven  was  a  clever  and  promising 
"boy,"  with  an  interesting  mind  and  a  nice  nature,  who  had  a 
great  desire  to  meet  her.  And  she  had  good-naturedly  said 
that  Craven  might  call.  It  had  all  been  very  casual.  But  Bray- 
brooke's  manner  had  now  completely  changed.  He  seemed 
to  think  he  was  almost  responsible  for  the  young  man.  There 
had  even  been  something  furtive  in  his  demeanour  when  speak- 
ing about  Craven  to  her,  and  when  she  had  forced  him  to 
explain  and  to  say  what  was  in  his  mind,  for  a  moment  he 
had  been  almost  confused. 

What  had  it  to  do  with  her  whether  Craven  married  Beryl 
Van  Tuyn  or  did  not  marry  her? 

Although  she  had  been  interested  when  Braybrooke  had 
spoken  of  Craven's  cleverness  and  energy,  of  his  good  pros- 
pects in  his  career,  and  of  the  appreciation  of  Eric  Learington 
— a  man  not  given  to  undue  praises — she  had  been  secretly  irri- 
tated when  he  had  come  to  the  question  of  Beryl  Van  Tuyn 
and  the  importance  of  Craven's  marrying  well.  Why  should 
he  marry  at  all?    And  if  he  must,  why  Beryl  Van  Tuyn? 

Lady  Sellingworth  hated  the  thought  of  that  marriage,  and 
the  idea  that  Braybrooke  was  probably  intent  on  trying  to 
bring  it  about,  or  at  any  rate  was  considering  whether  he  should 
make  the  endeavour,  roused  in  her  resentment  against  him. 

"Tiresome  old  man!"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  stood  by 
the  fire.  "Why  won't  he  let  things  alone?  What  business  is 
it  of  his?" 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  159 

And  then  she  felt  as  if  Braybrooke  were  meditating  a  stroke 
against  her,  and  had  practically  asked  her  to  help  him  in  deliver- 
ing the  blow. 

She  felt  that  definitely.  And  immediately  she  had  felt  it  she 
was  startled,  and  the  strong  sensation  of  being  near  to  danger 
took  hold  of  her. 

In  all  the  ten  years  which  had  passed  since  the  theft  of  her 
jewels  she  had  never  once  deliberately  stretched  out  her  hands 
to  happiness.  Palliatives  she  had  made  the  most  of ;  compen- 
sations she  had  been  thankful  for.  She  had  been  very  patient, 
and,  considering  what  she  had  been,  very  humble.  But  she 
had  definitely  given  up  the  thought  of  ever  knowing  again  any 
intimate  personal  happiness.  That  book  was  closed.  In  ten 
years  she  had  never  once  tried  to  open  it. 

And  now,  suddenly,  without  even  being  definitely  conscious 
of  what  she  was  doing,  she  had  laid  her  hands  on  it  as  if 

The  change  in  her,  the  abrupt  and  dangerous  change,  had 
surely  come  about  two  nights  ago.  And  she  felt  now  that  some- 
thing peculiar  in  Craven,  rather  than  something  unusual  in  her- 
self, had  caused  it. 

Beryl  Van  Tuyn  and  she  were  friends  because  the  girl  had 
professed  a  cult  for  her,  had  been  very  charming  to  her,  and, 
when  in  London,  had  persistently  sought  her  out.  Beryl  had 
amused  her.  She  had  even  been  interested  in  Beryl  because 
she  had  noted  in  her  certain  traits  which  had  once  been  pre- 
dominant in  herself.  And  how  she  had  understood  Beryl's 
vanity.  Beryl's  passion  for  independence  and  love  of  the  un- 
conventional! Although  they  were  so  different,  of  different 
nations  and  different  breeds,  there  was  something  which  made 
them  akin.  And  she  had  recognized  it.  And,  recognizing  it, 
she  had  sometimes  felt  a  secret  pity  and  even  fear  for  the  girl, 
thinking  of  the  inevitable  fading  of  that  beauty,  of  the  inevita- 
ble exasperation  of  that  vanity  with  the  passing  of  the  years. 
The  vanity  would  grow  and  the  beauty  would  diminish  as  time 
went  on.  And  then,  some  day,  what  would  Beryl  be?  For  in 
her  vanity  there  was  already  exaggeration.  In  it  she  had 
already  reached  a  stage  which  had  only  been  gained  by  Lady 
Sellingworth  at  a  much  later  period  in  life.  Already  she  looked 
in  the  highways  and  byways  for  admiration.     She  sought  for 


160  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

it  even  among  Italian  hairdressers !    Some  day  it  would  make 
her  suffer. 

Lady  Sellingworth  had  seen  young  Craven  go  away  from  his 
visit  to  her  in  Beryl's  company  with  perhaps  just  a  touch  of 
half-ironical  amusement,  mingled  with  just  a  touch  of  half- 
wistful  longing  for  the  days  that  were  over  and  done  with. 
She  knew  so  well  that  taking  possession  of  a  handsome  young 
man  on  a  first  meeting.  There  was  nothing  in  it  but  vanity. 
She  had  known  and  had  done  that  sort  of  thing  when  she  was 
a  reigning  beauty.  Craven  had  interested  and  pleased  her  at 
once ;  she  hardly  knew  why.  There  was  something  about  him, 
about  his  look,  bearing  and  manner  which  was  sympathetic  to 
her.  She  had  felt  glad  that  he  had  come  to  her  house,  had 
felt  a  quiet  inclination  to  know  more  of  him.  That  was  all. 
Seymour  Portman  had  liked  him,  too,  and  had  said  so  when 
the  door  had  closed  behind  the  young  couple,  leaving  the  old 
couple  to  themselves.  He  would  come  again  some  day,  no 
doubt.  And  while  she  and  Sir  Seymour  had  remained  by 
the  fire  talking  quietly  together,  in  imagination  she  had  seen 
those  two,  linked  by  their  youth — that  wonderful  bond — walk- 
ing through  the  London  twilight,  chattering  gaily,  laughing  at 
trifling  jokes,  realizing  their  freemasonry.  And  she  had  asked 
herself  why  it  was  that  she  could  not  feel  that  other  free- 
masonry— of  age.  Seymour  Portman  had  loved  her  for  many 
years,  loved  her  now,  had  never  married  because  of  her,  would 
give  up  anything  in  London  just  to  be  quietly  with  her,  would 
marry  her  now,  ravaged  though  she  was,  worn,  twice  a  widow, 
with  a  past  behind  her  which  he  must  know  about,  and  which 
was  not  edifying.  And  yet  she  could  not  love  him,  partly, 
perhaps  chiefly,  because  there  was  still  rooted  in  her  that 
ineradicable  passion — it  must  be  that,  even  now,  a  passion 
— for  youth  and  the  fascination  of  youth.  When  at  last  he 
had  gone  she  had  felt  unusually  bitter  for  a  few  minutes,  had 
asked  herself,  as  human  beings  ask  themselves  every  day,  the 
eternal  why.  "Why,  why,  why  am  I  as  I  am?  Why  can't  I 
care  for  the  suitable?  Why  can't  I  like  the  gift  held  out  to 
me?  Why  doesn't  my  soul  age  with  my  body?  Why  must  I 
continue  to  be  lonely  just  because  of  the  taint  in  my  nature 
which  forbids  me  to  find  companionship  in  one  who  finds  per- 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  161 

feet  companionship  in  me?  Why — to  sum  up — am  I  con- 
demned eternally  to  be  myself  ?" 

There  was  no  answer.  The  voice  was  not  in  the  whirlwind. 
And  presently  she  had  dismissed  those  useless,  those  damnable 
questions,  which  only  torture  because  they  are  never  answered. 

And  then  had  come  the  night  in  Soho.  And  there  for  the 
first  time  since  they  had  known  each  other  she  had  felt  her- 
self to  be  subtly  involved  in  a  woman's  obscure  conflict  with 
Beryl  Van  Tuyn.  She  was  not  conscious  of  having  taken  up 
weapons.  Nevertheless  .she  had  no  doubt  about  the  conflict. 
And  on  her  side  any  force  brought  into  play  against  her  beau- 
tiful friend  must  have  issued  simply  from  her  personality, 
from  some  influence,  perhaps  from  some  charm,  which'  she 
had  not  deliberately  used.  (At  least  she  thought  she  was  being 
sincere  with  herself  in  telling  herself  that.)  Craven  had  been 
the  cause  of  the  conflict,  .and  certainly  he  had  been  fully  aware 
of  Beryl  Van  Tuyn's  part  in  it.  And  he  had  shown  quiet 
determination,  wilfulness  even.  That  wilfulness  of  his  had 
pleased  Lady  Sellingworth  more  than  anything  had  pleased 
her  for  a  very  long  time.  It  had  even  touched  her.  At  first 
she  had  thought  that  perhaps  it  had  been  prompted  by  chivalry, 
by  something  charmingly  old-fashioned,  and  delicately  gentle- 
manly in  Craven.  Later  on  she  had  been  glad — intimately, 
warmly  glad — to  be  quite  sure  that  something  more  personal 
had  guided  him  in  his  conduct  that  night. 

He  had  simply  preferred  her  company  to  the  company  of 
Beryl  Van  Tuyn.  She  was  woman  enough  to  rejoice  in  that 
fact.  It  was  even  rather  wonderful  to  her.  And  it  had  given 
Craven  a  place  in  her  estimation  which  no  one  had  had  for 
ten  years. 

Beryl's  pressure  upon  him  had  been  very  definite.  She  had 
practically  told  him,  and  asked  him,  to  do  a  certain  thing — to 
finish  the  evening  with  her.  And  he  had  practically  denied 
her  right  to  command,  and  refused  her  request.  He  had  pre- 
ferred to  the  Georgians  and  their  lively  American  contempo- 
rary, sincerely  preferred,  an  Edwardian. 

The  compliment  was  the  greater  because  the  Edwardian  had 
not  encouraged  him.  Indeed  in  a  way  he  had  really  defied  her 
as  well  as  Beryl  Van  Tuyn. 

She  had  loved  his  defiance.    When  he  had  flatly  told  her  he 


162  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

did  not  intend  to  go  back  to  the  Cafe  Royal  she  had  felt  thankful 
to  him — just  that.  And  just  before  his  almost  boyish  remark, 
made  with  genuine  vexation  in  his  voice,  about  the  driving  of 
London  chauffeurs  had  given  her  a  little  happy  thrill  such  as 
she  had  not  known  for  years. 

She  had  not  had  the  heart  to  leave  him  on  her  doorstep. 

But  now,  standing  by  the  fire,  she  knew  that  it  would  have 
been  safer  to  have  left  him  there.  And  it  would  be  safer  now 
to  ring  the  bell,  summon  the  footman,  and  say  that  she  was 
not  at  home  to  anyone  that  afternoon.  While  she  was  thinking 
this  the  footman  entered  the  room.  Hearing  him  she  turned 
sharply. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Sir  Seymour  Portman  has  called,  my  lady.  I  told  him  you 
were  not  at  home.     But  he  asked  me  to  make  quite  sure." 

Lady  Sellingworth  hesitated.  After  a  moment's  pause  she 
said,  in  a  dry  voice: 

"Not  at  home." 

The  footman  went  out. 

There  are  moments  in  life  which  are  full  of  revelation.  That 
was  such  a  moment  for  Lady  Sellingworth.  When  she  had 
heard  the  door  open  her  instinct  had  played  her  false.  She  had 
turned  sharply  feeling  certain  that  Craven  had  called.  The 
reaction  she  felt  when  she  heard  the  name  of  Sir  Seymour 
told  her  definitely  that  she  was  in  danger.  She  felt  angry 
with  herself,  even  disgusted,  as  well  as  half  frightened. 

"What  a  brute  I  am !" 

She  formed  those  words  with  her  lips.  An  acute  sense  of 
disappointment  pervaded  her  because  Craven  had  not  come, 
though  she  had  no  reason  whatever  to  expect  him.  But  she 
was  angry  because  of  her  feeling  about  Seymour  Portman. 
It  was  horrible  to  have  such  a  tepid  heart  as  hers  was  when 
such  a  long  and  deep  devotion  was  given  to  it.  The  accus- 
tomed thing  then  made  scarcely  any  impression  upon  her,  while 
the  thing  that  was  new,  untried,  perhaps  worth  very  little, 
excited  in  her  an  expectation  which  amounted  almost  to  longing ! 

"How  can  Seymour  go  on  loving  such  a  woman  as  I  am?" 
she  thought. 

Stretching  herself  a  little  she  was  able  to  look  into  an  oval 
Venetian  mirror  above  the  high  marble  frame  of  the  fireplace. 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  163 

She  looked  to  scourge  herself  as  a  punishment  for  what  she  was 
feeling. 

"You  miserable,  ridiculous  old  woman !"  she  said  to  herself, 
as  she  saw  her  lined  face  which  the  mirror,  an  antique  one, 
slightly  distorted. 

"You  ought  to  be  thankful  to  have  such  a  friendship  as 
Seymour's !" 

She  said  that,  and  she  knew  that  if,  disobeying  her  order 
to  the  footman,  he  had  come  upstairs,  her  one  desire  would 
have  been  to  get  rid  of  him,  at  all  costs,  to  get  him  and  his  devo- 
tion out  of  the  house,  lest  Craven  should  come  and  she  should 
not  have  Craven  alone.  If  Seymour  knew  that  surely  even 
his  love  would  turn  into  hatred ! 

And  if  Craven  knew ! 

She  felt  that  day  as  if  all  the  rampart  of  will,  which  ten 
years'  labour  had  built  up  between  her  and  the  dangers  and 
miseries  attendant  upon  such  a  temperament  as  hers,  were  be- 
ginning before  her  eyes  to  crumble  into  dust,  touched  by  the 
wand  of  a  maleficent  enchanter. 

And  it  was  Craven's  fault.  He  should  have  been  like  other 
young  men,  obedient  to  the  call  of  beauty  and  youth ;  he  should 
have  been  wax  in  Bery-l  Van  Tuyn's  pretty  hands.  Then  this 
would  never  have  happened,  this  crumbling  of  will.  He  had 
done  a  cruel  thing  without  being  aware  of  his  cruelty.  He 
had  been  carried  away  by  something  that  was  not  primarily 
physical.  And  in  yielding  to  that  uncommon  impulse,  which 
proved  that  he  was  not  typical,  he  had  set  in  activity,  in  this 
hidden  and  violent  activity,  that  which  had  been  sleeping  so 
deeply  as  to  seem  like  something  dead. 

As  Lady  Sellingworth  looked  into  the  Venetian  mirror,  which 
made  her  ugliness  of  age  look  uglier  than  it  was,  she  regretted 
sharply  that  she  had  allowed  herself  to  grow  old  in  this  fear- 
fully definite  way.  It  was  too  horrible  to  look  like  this  and  to 
be  waiting  eagerly,  with  an  almost  deceiving  eagerness,  for 
the  opening  of  a  door,  a  footfall,  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  was 
young.  Mrs.  Ackroyd,  Lady  Archie  Brook — they  looked  surely 
twenty  years  younger  than  she  did.  She  had  been  a  fool! 
She  had  been  a  passionate,  impulsive  fool! 

No;  she  was  being  a  fool  now. 

If  only  Caroline  Briggs  were  in  London!     At  that  moment 


164  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

Lady  Sellingworth  longed  to  be  defended  against  herself.  She 
felt  that  she  was  near  to  the  edge  of  a  precipice,  but  that 
perhaps  a  strong  hand  could  pull  her  away  from  it  into  the 
safety  she  had  known  for  ten  years. 

"I  am  sixty.  That  settles  it.  There  is  nothing  to  be  excited 
about,  nothing  to  look  for,  nothing  to  draw  back  from  or  refuse. 
The  fact  that  I  am  sixty  and  look  as  I  do  settles  the  whole 
matter." 

They  were  brave  words,  but  unfortunately  they  altered  noth- 
ing. Feeling  was  untouched  by  them.  Even  conviction  was 
not  attained.  Lady  Sellingworth  knew  she  was  sixty,  but  she 
felt  like  a  woman  of  thirty  at  that  moment.  And  yet  she  was 
not  deceived,  was  not  deceiving  herself.  She  did  know — or 
felt  that  she  absolutely  knew — that  the  curious  spell  she  had 
evidently  been  able,  how  she  scarcely  knew,  to  exert  upon 
Craven  during  his  visit  to  her  that  night  could  not  possibly  be 
lasting.  He  must  be  a  quite  unusual  young  man,  perhaps  even 
in  some  degree  abnormal.  But  even  so  the  fascination  he  had 
felt,  and  had  shown  that  he  felt,  could  not  possibly  be  a 
lasting  fascination.    In  such  matters  she  knew. 

Therefore  surely  the  way  was  plain  before  her.  Ten  years 
ago  she  had  made  up  her  mind,  as  a  woman  seldom  makes 
up  her  mind.  She  had  seen  facts,  basic  facts,  naked  in  a  glare 
of  light.  Those  facts  had  not  changed.  But  she  had  changed. 
She  was  ten  years  older.  The  horror  of  passing  into  the 
fifties  had  died  out  in  the  cold  resignation  of  passing  into 
the  sixties.  Any  folly  now  would  be  ten  times  more  foolish 
than  a  folly  of  ten  years  ago.    She  told  herself  that,  reiterated  it. 

The  clock  struck  six.  She  heard  it  and  turned  from 
the  fire.  Certainly  Craven  would  not  call  now.  It  was  too 
late.  Only  a  very  intimate  friend  would  be  likely  to  call  after 
six  o'clock,  and  Craven  was  not  a  very  intimate  friend,  but 
only  a  new  acquaintance  whom  she  had  been  with  twice.  When 
he  had  said  good-bye  to  her  after  their  long  talk  by  the  fire 
on  the  night  of  the  dinner  in  Soho  she  had  said  nothing  about 
his  coming  again.  And  he  had  not  mentioned  it.  But  she  had 
felt  then  that  to  speak  of  such  a  thing  was  quite  unnecessary, 
that  it  was  tacitly  understood  between  them  that  of  course  he 
would  come  again,  and  soon.  And  she  believed  that  he  had 
felt  as  she  did.     For  despite  her  self-mockery,  and  even  now 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  165 

when  looking  back,  she  had  known,  and  still  knew,  that  they 
had  gone  quite  a  long  way  together  in  a  very  short  time. 

That  happens  sometimes ;  but  perhaps  very  seldom  when  one 
of  the  travellers  is  sixty  and  the  other  some  thirty  years 
younger.  Surely  something  peculiar  in  Craven  rather  than 
something  unusual  in  herself  had  been  at  the  root  of  the  whole 
thing. 

That  night  he  had  seemed  so  oddly  at  home  in  her  house, 
and  really  he  had  seemed  so  happy  and  at  ease.  They  had 
talked  about  Italy,  and  he  had  told  her  what  Italy  meant 
to  him,  quite  simply  and  without  any  pose,  forgetting  to  be 
self-conscious  in  the  English  way.  He  had  passed  a  whole 
summer  on  the  bay  of  Naples,  and  he  had  told  her  all  about 
it.  And  in  the  telling  he  had  revealed  a  good  deal  of  him- 
self. The  prelude  in  Soho  had  no  doubt  prepared  the  way 
for  such  a  talk  by  carrying  them  to  Naples  on  wings  of  music. 
They  would  not  have  talked  just  like  that  after  a  banal  dinner 
at  Claridge's  or  the  Carlton.  Craven  had  shown  the  enthusi- 
asm that  was  in  him  for  the  sun,  the  sea,  life  let  loose  from 
convention,  nature  and  beautiful  things.  The  Foreign  Office 
young  man — quiet,  reserved,  and  rather  older  than  his  years — 
had  been  pushed  aside  by  a  youth  who  had  some  Pagan  blood 
in  him,  who  had  some  agreeable  wildness  under  the  smooth 
surface  which  often  covers  only  other  layers  of  smoothness. 
He  had  told  her  of  his  envy  of  the  sea  people  and  she  had 
understood  it;  and,  in  return,  she  had  told  him  of  an  Ameri- 
can boy  whom  she  had  known  long  ago,  and  who,  fired  by  a 
book  about  life  on  the  bay  of  Naples  which  he  had  read  in 
San  Francisco,  had  got  hold  of  a  little  money,  taken  ship  to 
Naples,  gone  straight  to  the  point  at  Posilpipo,  and  stayed  there 
among  the  fishermen  for  nearly  two  years,  living  their  life, 
eating  their  food,  learning  to  speak  their  argot,  becoming  at 
length  as  one  of  them.  So  thoroughly  indeed  had  he  identified 
himself  with  them  that  often  he  had  acted  as  boatman  to  Eng- 
lish and  American  tourists,  and  never  had  his  nationality  been 
discovered.  In  the  end,  of  course,  he  had  gone  back  to  San 
Francisco,  and  she  believed,  was  now  a  lawyer  in  California. 
But  at  least  he  had  been  wise  enough  to  give  up  two  years  to  a 
whim,  and  had  bared  his  skin  to  the  sun  for  two  glorious  sum- 


166  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

mers.  And  not  everyone  has  the  will  to  adventure  even  so 
far  as  that. 

Then  they  had  talked  about  the  passion  for  adventure,  and 
Craven  had  spoken  of  his  love,  not  yet  lost,  for  Browning's 
poem,  "Waring";  how  he  had  read  it  when  quite  a  boy  and 
been  fascinated  by  it  as  by  few  other  poems.  He  had  even 
quoted  some  lines  from  it,  and  said  them  well,  taking  pains 
and  not  fearing  any  criticism  or  ridicule  from  her.  And  they 
had  wondered  whether  underneath  the  smooth  surface  of 
Browning,  the  persistent  diner  out,  there  had  not  been  far  down 
somewhere  a  brown  and  half-savage  being  who,  in  some  other 
existence,  had  known  life  under  lateen  sails  on  seas  that  lie 
beyond  the  horizon  line  of  civilization.  And  they  had  spoken 
of  the  colours  of  sails,  of  the  red,  the  brown,  the  tawny  orange- 
hued  canvases,  that,  catching  the  winds  under  sunset  skies, 
bring  romance,  like  some  rare  fruit  from  hidden  magical  islands, 
upon  emerald,  bright-blue  or  indigo  seas. 

The  talk  had  run  on  without  any  effort.  They  had  been 
happily  sunk  in  talk.  She  had  kept  the  fire  from  her  face  with 
the  big  fan.  But  the  fire  had  lit  his  face  up  sometimes  and 
the  flames  had  seemed  to  leap  in  his  eyes.  And  watching  him 
without  seeming  to  watch  him  the  self-mockery  had  died  out 
of  her  eyes.  She  had  forgotten  to  mock  at  herself  and  had 
let  herself  go  down  the  stream:  floating  from  subject  to  sub- 
ject, never  touching  bottom,  never  striking  the  bank,  never 
brought  up  short  by  an  obstacle.  It  had  been  a  perfect  conver- 
sation. Even  her  imp  must  have  been  quite  absorbed  in  it. 
For  he  had  not  tormented  her  during  it. 

But  at  last  the  clock  had  struck  one,  just  one  clear  chiming 
blow.  And  suddenly  Craven  had  started  up.  His  blue  eyes 
were  shining  and  a  dusky  red  had  come  into  his  cheeks.  And 
he  had  apologized,  had  said  something  about  being  "carried 
away"  beyond  all  recollection  of  the  hour.  She  had  stayed 
where  she  was  and  had  bidden  him  good  night  quietly  from  the 
sofa,  shutting  up  her  fan  and  laying  it  on  a  table.  And  she 
had  said :  "I  wonder  what  it  was  like  with  the  Georgians !"  And 
then  he  had  again  forgotten  the  hour,  and  had  stood  there 
talking  about  the  ultra-modern  young  people  of  London  as 
if  he  were  very  far  away  from  them,  were  much  older,  much 
simpler,  even  much  more  akin  to  her,  than  they  were.    He  had 


I 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  167 

prefaced  his  remarks  with  the  words,  "I  had  forgotten  all 
about  them !"  and  she  had  felt  it  was  true.  Beryl  Van  Tuyn's 
name  had  not  been  mentioned  between  them.  But  she  was  not 
a  Georgian.  Perhaps  that  fact  accounted  for  the  omission,  or 
perhaps  there  were  other  reasons  for  their  not  speaking  of 
her  just  them.  She  had  done  her  best  to  prevent  the  evening 
intimacy  which  had  been  theirs.  And  they  both  knew  it.  Per- 
haps that  was  why  they  did  not  speak  of  her.  Poor  Beryl ! 
Just  then  Lady  Sellingworth  had  known  a  woman's  triumph 
which  was  the  sweeter  because  of  her  disadvantages.  Thirty- 
six  years  older  than  the  young  and  vivid  beauty!  And  yet 
he  had  preferred  to  end  his  evening  with  her!  He  must  be 
an  unusual,  even  perhaps  a  rather  strange  man.  Or  else — no, 
the  tremendous  humiliation  she  had  endured  ten  years  ago,  act- 
ing on  a  nature  which  had  always  been  impaired  by  a  secret 
diffidence,  had  made  her  too  humble  to  believe  any  longer  that 
she  had  within  herself  the  conqueror's  power.  He  was  not 
like  other  young  men.  That  was  it.  She  had  come  upon 
an  exceptional  nature.  Exceptional  natures  love,  hate,  are 
drawn  and  repelled  in  exceptional  ways.  The  rules  which  gov- 
ern others  do  not  apply  to  them.  Craven  was  dangerous  because 
he  was,  he  must  be,  peculiar. 

When  at  last  he  had  left  her  that  night  it  had  been  nearly 
half-past  one.  But  he  had  not  apologized  again.  In  going  he 
had  said :  "Thank  God  you  refused  to  go  to  the  Cafe  Royal  I" 

Nearly  half-past  one!  Lady  Sellingworth  now  looked  at 
the  clock.    It  was  nearly  half-past  six. 

She  had  a  lonely  dinner,  a  lonely  evening  before  her. 

Suddenly  all  her  resignation  seemed  to  leave  her,  to  aban- 
don her,  as  if  it  had  had  enough  of  her  and  could  not  bear  to 
be  with  her  for  another  minute.  She  saw  her  life  as  a  desert, 
without  one  flower,  one  growing  green  thing  in  it.  How  had 
she  been  able  to  endure  it  for  so  long?  It  was  a  monstrous 
injustice  that  she  should  be  condemned  to  this  horrible,  un- 
nerving loneliness.  What  was  the  use  of  living  if  one  was 
entirely  alone?  What  was  the  use  of  money,  of  a  great  and 
beautiful  house,  of  comfort  and  of  leisure,  if  nobody  shared 
them  with  you?  People  came  to  see  her,  of  course.  Many 
more  would  gladly  come  if  she  encouraged  them.  But  what 
is  the  use  of  visitors,  of  people  who  drop  in,  and  drop  out 


168  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

just  when  you  most  need  someone  to  help  you  in  facing  life, 
in  the  evenings  and  when  deep  night  closes  in  ?  At  that  moment 
she  felt,  in  her  anger  and  rebellion,  that  she  had  never  had 
anything  in  her  life,  that  all  the  women  she  knew — except 
perhaps  Caroline  Briggs — had  had  more  than  herself,  had  had 
a  far  better  time  than  she  had  had.  During  the  last  ten  years 
her  brilliant  past  had  faded  until  now  she  could  scarcely  be- 
lieve in  it.  It  had  become  like  a  pale  aquarelle.  Her  memory 
retained  events,  of  course,  but  they  seemed  to  have  happened 
in  the  life  of  someone  she  had  known  intimately  rather  than 
of  herself.  They  were  to  her  like  things  told  rather  than  like 
things  lived.  There  were  times  when  she  even  felt  innocent. 
So  much  had  she  changed  during  the  last  ten  years.  And  now 
she  revolted,  like  a  woman  who  had  never  lived  and  wanted 
to  live  for  the  first  time,  like  a  woman  who  had  never  had 
anything  and  who  demanded  possession.  She  even  got  up 
and  stood  out  in  the  big  room,  saying  to  herself : 

"What  shall  I  do  to-night?  I  can't  stay  here  all  alone.  I 
must  go  out.  I  must  do  something  unusual  to  take  me  out  of 
myself.  Mere  stagnation  here  will  drive  me  mad.  I've  got 
to  do  something  to  get  away  from  myself." 

But  what  could  she  do?  An  elderly  well-known  woman 
cannot  break  out  of  her  house  in  the  night,  like  an  unknown 
young  man,  and  run  wild  in  the  streets  of  London,  or  wander 
in  the  parks,  seeking  distractions  and  adventures. 

Ten  years  ago  in  Paris  she  had  felt  something  of  the  same 
angry  desire  for  the  freedom  of  a  man,  something  of  the  same 
impotence.  Her  curbed  wildness  then  had  tortured  her.  It 
tortured  her  now.  Life  was  in  violent  activity  all  about  her. 
Even  the  shop  girls  had  something  to  look  forward  to.  Soon 
they  would  be  going  out  with  their  lovers.  She  knew  some- 
thing of  the  freedom  of  the  modern  girl.  Women  were  begin- 
ning to  take  what  men  had  always  had.  But  all  that  freedom 
was  too  late  for  her!  (She  forgot  that  she  had  taken  it  long 
ago  in  Paris  and  felt  that  she  had  never  had  it.  And  that 
feeling  made  part  of  her  anger. ) 

The  clock  struck  the  half -hour. 

Just  then  the  door  was  opened  and  the  footman  appeared 
before  she  had  had  time  to  move.  He  looked  faintly  surprised 
at  seeing  her  standing  facing  him  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  169 

"Mr.  Craven  has  called,  my  lady." 

"Mr.  Craven !  But  I  told  you  to  let  him  in.  Have  you  sent 
him  away?" 

"No,  my  lady.  But  Mr.  Craven  wouldn't  come  up  till  I  had 
seen  your  ladyship.  He  said  it  was  so  late.  He  asked  me 
first  to  tell  your  ladyship  he  had  called,  and  whether  he  might 
see  you  just  for  a  minute,  as  he  had  a  message  to  give  your 
ladyship." 

"A  message!     Please  ask  him  to  come  up." 

The  footman  went  out,  and  Lady  Sellingworth  went  to  sit 
down  near  the  fire.  She  now  looked  exactly  as  usual,  casual, 
indiflFerent,  but  kind,  not  at  all  like  a  woman  who  would  ever 
pity  herself.  In  a  moment  the  footman  announced  "Mr. 
Craven,"  and  Craven  walked  in  with  an  eager  but  slightly 
anxious  expression  on  his  face. 

"I  know  it  is  much  too  late  for  a  visit,"  he  said.  "But  I 
thought  I  might  perhaps  just  speak  to  you." 

"Of  course.  I  hear  you  have  a  message  for  me.  Is  it  from 
Beryl?" 

He  looked  surprised. 

"Miss  Van  Tuyn?    I  haven't  seen  her." 

"Yes?" 

"I  only  wanted — I  wondered  whether,  if  you  are  not  doing 
anything  to-night,  I  could  persuade  you  to  give  me  a  great 
pleasure.  .  .  .  Could  I  ?" 

"But  what  is  it?" 

"Would  you  dine  with  me  at  the  Bella  Napoli?" 

Lady  Sellingworth  thought  of  the  shop  girls  again,  but  now 
how  differently! 

"I  would  come  and  call  for  you  just  before  eight.  It's  a  fine 
night.     It's  dry,  and  it  will  be  clear  and  starry." 

"You  want  me  to  walk  ?" 

He  slightly  reddened. 

"Or  shall  we  dress  and  go  in  a  taxi  ?"  he  said. 

"No,  no.    But  I  haven't  said  I  can  come." 

His  face  fell. 

"I  will  come,"  she  said.  "And  we  will  walk.  But  what  would 
Mr.  Braybrooke  say?" 

"Have  you  seen  him  ?    Has  he  told  you  ?" 

"What?" 


170  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

"About  our  conversation  in  the  club  ?" 

"I  have  seen  him,  and  I  don't  think  he  is  quite  pleased  about 
Shaftesbury  Avenue.  But  never  mind.  I  cannot  live  to  please 
Mr.  Braybrooke.    Au  rcvoir.    Just  before  eight." 

When  he  had  gone  Lady  SeUingworth  again  looked  in  the 
glass. 

"But  it's  impossible!"  she  said  to  herself.    "It's  impossible!" 

She  hated  her  face  at  that  moment,  and  could  not  help  bit- 
terly regretting  the  fierce  impulse  of  ten  years  ago.  If  she 
had  not  yielded  to  that  impulse  she  might  now  have  been  look- 
ing, not  a  young  woman  certainly,  but  a  woman  well  preserved. 
Now  she  was  frankly  a  wreck.  She  would  surely  look  almost 
grotesque  dining  alone  with  young  Craven.  People  would  think 
she  was  his  grandmother.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  not  to 
go.  She  was  filled  with  a  sense  of  painful  hesitation.  She 
came  away  from  the  glass.  No  doubt  Craven  was  "on  the 
telephone."  She  might  communicate  with  him,  tell  him  not  to 
come,  that  she  had  changed  her  mind,  did  not  feel  very  well. 
He  would  not  believe  her  excuse  whatever  it  was,  but  that  could 
not  be  helped.  Anything  was  better  than  to  make  a  spectacle 
of  herself  in  a  restaurant.  She  had  not  put  Craven's  address 
and  telephone  number  in  her  address  book,  but  she  might  per- 
haps have  kept  the  note  he  had  written  to  her  before  their 
first  meeting.  She  did  not  remember  having  torn  it  up.  She 
went  to  her  writing-table,  but  could  not  find  the  note.  She 
found  his  card,  but  it  had  only  his  club  address  on  it.  Then 
she  went  downstairs  to  a  morning  room  she  had  on  the  ground 
floor.  There  was  another  big  writing-table  there.  The  tele- 
phone was  there  too.  After  searching  for  several  minutes 
she  discovered  Craven's  note,  the  only  note  he  had  ever  writ- 
ten to  her.  Stamped  in  the  left-hand  corner  of  the  notepaper 
was  a  telephone  number. 

She  was  about  to  take  down  the  receiver  when  she  remem- 
bered that  Craven  had  not  yet  had  time  to  walk  back  to  his 
flat  from  her  house,  even  if  he  were  going  straight  home.  She 
must  wait  a  few  minutes.  She  came  away  from  the  writing- 
table,  sat  down  in  an  armchair,  and  waited. 

Night  had  closed  in.  Heavy  curtains  were  drawn  across  the 
tall  windows.  One  electric  lamp,  which  she  had  just  turned 
on,  threw  a  strong  light  on  the  writing-table,  on  pens,  station- 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOME  171 

ery,  an  address  book,  a  telephone  book,  a  big  blue-and-gold 
inkstand,  some  photographs  which  stood  on  a  ledge  protected 
by  a  tiny  gilded  rail.  The  rest  of  the  room  was  in  shadow. 
A  low  fire  burned  in  the  grate. 

Lady  Sellingworth  did  not  take  up  a  book  or  occupy  herself 
in  any  way.  She  just  sat  still  in  the  armchair  and  waited. 
Now  and  then  she  heard  a  faint  footfall,  the  hoot  of  a  motor 
horn,  the  slight  noise  of  a  passing  car.  And  loneliness  crept 
upon  her  like  something  gathering  her  into  a  cold  and  ter- 
rible embrace. 

It  occurred  to  her  that  she  might  ask  Craven  presently 
through  the  telephone  to  come  and  dine  in  Berkeley  Square. 
No  one  would  see  her  with  him  if  she  did  that,  except  her 
own  servants. 

But  that  would  be  a  compromise.  She  was  not  fond  of 
compromises.  Better  one  thing  or  the  other.  Either  she 
would  go  with  him  to  the  restaurant  or  she  would  not  see 
him  at  all  that  night. 

If  Caroline  Briggs  were  only  here!  And  yet  if  she  were  it 
would  be  difficult  to  speak  about  the  matter  to  her.  If  she  were 
told  of  it,  what  would  she  say?  That  would  depend  upon  how 
she  was  told.  If  she  were  told  all  the  truth,  not  mere  inci- 
dents, but  also  the  feelings  attending  them,  she  would  tell  her 
friend  to  give  the  whole  thing  up.  Caroline  was  always  drastic. 
She  always  went  straight  to  the  point. 

But  Caroline  was  in  Paris. 

Lady  Sellingworth  looked  at  her  watch.  Craven  lived  not 
far  off.  He  might  be  at  home  by  now.  But  perhaps  she  had 
better  give  him,  and  herself,  a  little  more  time.  For  she  was 
still  undecided,  did  not  yet  know  what  she  was  going  to  do. 
Impulse  drove  her  on,  but  something  else,  reason  perhaps, 
or  fear,  or  secret,  deep  down,  painfully  acquired  knowledge, 
was  trying  to  hold  her  back.  She  remembered  her  last  stay 
in  Paris,  her  hesitation  then,  her  dinner  with  Caroline  Briggs, 
the  definite  decision  she  had  come  to,  her  effort  to  carry  it 
out,  the  terrible  breakdown  of  her  decision  at  the  railway 
station  and  its  horrible  result. 

Disaster  had  come  upon  her  because  she  had  yielded  to  an 
impulse  ten  years  ago.  Surely  that  should  teach  her  not  to 
yield  to  an  impulse  now.     But  the  one  was  so  different  from 


172  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

the  other,  as  different  as  that  horrible  man  in  Paris  had  been 
from  young  Craven,  That  horrible  man  in  Paris !  He  had 
disappeared  out  of  her  hfe.  She  had  never  seen  him  again, 
had  never  mentioned  him  to  anybody.  He  had  gone,  as  mys- 
teriously as  he  had  come,  carrying  his  booty  with  him,  all 
those  lovely  things  which  had  been  hers,  which  she  had  worn 
on  her  neck  and  arms  and  bosom,  in  her  hair  and  on  her  hands. 
Sometimes  she  had  wondered  about  him,  about  the  mentality 
and  the  life  of  such  a  man  as  he  was,  a  creature  of  the  under- 
world, preying  on  women,  getting  up  in  the  morning,  going  to 
bed  at  night,  with  thoughts  of  crime  in  his  mind,  using  his  gift 
of  beauty  loathsomely.  She  had  wondered,  too,  how  it  was 
that  such  loathsomeness  as  his  was  able  to  hide  itself,  how  it 
was  that  he  could  look  so  manly,  so  athletic,  even  so  wistful 
and  eager  for  sympathy. 

But  Seymour  Portman  had  seen  through  him  at  a  first  glance. 
Evidently  that  type  of  man  had  a  power  to  trick  women's  in- 
stincts, but  was  less  successful  with  men.  Perhaps  Caroline 
was  right,  and  the  whole  question  was  simply  one  of  the  lust 
of  the  eye. 

Young  Craven  was  good-looking  too.  But  surely  she  had 
not  been  attracted  to  him,  brought  into  sympathy  with  him 
merely  because  of  that.  She  hoped  not.  She  tried  hard  to 
think  not.  A  woman  of  her  age  must  surely  be  beyond  the 
lure  of  mere  looks  in  a  man  unconnected  with  the  deeper  things 
which  make  up  personality. 

And  yet  ten  years  ago  she  had  been  lured  towards  a  loath- 
some and  utterly  abominable  personality  by  mere  looks.  Cer- 
tainly her  nature  inclined  her  to  be  a  prey  to  just  that — the  lust 
of  the  eye, 

(Caroline  Briggs  was  horribly  apposite  in  some  of  her  re- 
marks,) 

She  tried  to  reconstitute  her  evening  with  Craven  in  her 
imagination,  keeping  the  conversation  exactly  as  it  had  been, 
but  giving  him  a  thoroughly  plain  face,  a  bad  complexion, 
mouse-coloured  feeble  hair,  undistinguished  features,  ordinary 
eyes,  and  a  short  broad  figure.  Certainly  it  would  have  made 
a  difference.  But  how  much  difference  ?  Perhaps  a  good  deal. 
But  he  had  enjoyed  the  conversation  as  much  as  she  had,  and 
there  was  nothing  in  her  appearance  now  to  arouse  the  lust 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  173 

of  the  eye.  Suddenly  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  possessed 
now  at  least  one  advantage.  If  a  young  man  were  attracted 
by  her  it  must  be  her  personality,  herself  in  fact,  which  at- 
tracted him.  It  could  not  be  her  looks.  And  surely  it  is 
better  to  attract  by  your  personality  than  by  your  looks. 

A  woman's  voice  whispered  within  her  just  then,  "It  is  bet- 
ter to  attract  by  both.     Then  you  are  safe." 

She  moved  uneasily.  Then  she  got  up  and  went  to  the  tele- 
phone. The  chances  were  in  favour  of  Craven's  being  in  his 
flat  by  now. 

As  she  put  her  hand  on  the  receiver,  but  before  she  took 
it  down.  Lady  Sellingworth  thought  of  the  Paris  railway  sta- 
tion, of  what  had  happened  there,  of  the  stern  resolution  she 
had  come  to  that  day,  of  the  tears  of  blood  that  had  sealed 
it,  of  the  will  that  had  enabled  her  to  stick  to  it  during  ten 
years.  And  she  thought,  too,  of  that  phrase  of  Caroline 
Briggs's  concerning  the  lust  of  the  eye. 

"I  won't  go !"  she  said  to  herself. 

And  she  took  the  receiver  down. 

Almost  immediately  she  was  put  through,  and  heard  Craven's 
voice  at  the  other  end,  the  voice  which  had  recited  those  lines 
from  Browning's  "Waring"  by  the  fire,  saying: 

"Yes?    Who  is  it?" 

"Lady  Sellingworth,"  she  replied. 

The  sound  of  the  voice  changed  at  once,  became  eager  as  it 
said: 

"Oh — Lady  Sellingworth!  I  have  only  just  come  in.  I 
know  what  it  is." 

"But  how  can  you?" 

"I  do.  You  want  me  to  dress  for  dinner.  And  we  are  to 
go  in  a  cab  and  be  very  respectable  instead  of  Bohemian.  Isn't 
that  it?" 

She  hesitated.     Then  she  said : 

"No;  it  isn't  that." 

"Do  tell  me  then!" 

"I  think — I'm  afraid  I  can't  come." 

"Oh,  no — it  can't  be  that !  But  I  have  reserved  the  table  in 
the  comer  for  us.  And  we  are  going  to  have  gnocchi  done  in 
a  special  way  with  cheese.  Gnocchi  with  cheese!  Please — 
please  don't  disappoint  me." 


174  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

"But  I  haven't  been  very  well  the  last  two  days,  and  I'm 
rather  afraid  of  the  cold." 

"I  am  so  sorry.  But  it's  absolutely  dry  under  foot.  I  swear 
it  is!" 

A  pause.    Then  his  voice  added : 

"Since  I  came  in  I  have  refused  an  invitation  to  dine  out 
to-night.     I  absolutely  relied  on  you." 

"Yes?" 

"Yes.  It  was  from  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  to  dine  with  her  at  the 
Bella  Napoli." 

"I'll  come!"  said  Lady  Sellingworth.    "Good-bye." 

And  she  put  up  the  receiver. 


CHAPTER  V 

MISS  VAN  TUYN  had  not  intended  to  stay  long  in  Lon- 
don when  she  came  over  from  Paris.  But  now  she 
changed  her  mind.  She  was  pulled  at  by  three  interests — 
Lady  Selling\vorth,  Craven  and  the  living  bronze.  A  cold 
hand  had  touched  her  vanity  on  the  night  of  the  dinner  in 
Soho.  She  had  felt  angry  with  Craven  for  not  coming  back 
to  the  Cafe  Royal,  and  angrier  still  with  Lady  Sellingworth  for 
keeping  him  with  her.  Although  she  did  not  positively  know 
that  Craven  had  spent  the  last  part  of  the  evening  in  the  draw- 
ing-room at  Berkeley  Square,  she  felt  certain  that  he  had  done 
so.  Probably  Lady  Sellingworth  had  pressed  him  to  go  in. 
But  perhaps  he  had  been  glad  to  go,  perhaps  he  had  sub- 
mitted to  an  influence  which  had  carried  him  for  the  time 
out  of  his  younger,  more  beautiful  friend's  reach. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  resolved  definitely  that  Craven  must  at  once 
be  added  to  the  numerous  men  who  were  mad  about  her.  So 
much  was  due  to  her  vanity.  Besides,  she  liked  Craven,  and 
might  grow  to  like  him  very  much  if  she  knew  him  better. 
She  decided  to  know  him  better,  much  better,  and  wrote  her 
letter  to  him.  Craven  had  puzzled  a  little  over  the  final  sen- 
tence of  that  letter.  There  were  two  reasons  for  its  appar- 
ently casual  insertion.  Miss  Van  Tuyn  wished  to  whip  Craven 
into  alertness  by  giving  his  male  vanity  a  flick.  Her  other 
reason  was  more  subtle.  Some  instinct  seemed  to  tell  her 
that  in  the  future  she  might  want  to  use  the  stranger  as  a 
weapon  in  connexion  with  Craven.  She  did  not  know  how 
exactly.  But  in  that  sentence  of  her  letter  she  felt  that  she 
was  somehow  preparing  the  ground  for  incidents  which  would 
be  brought  about  by  destiny,  or  which  chance  would  allow  to 
happen. 

That  she  would  some  day  know  "the  living  bronze"  she 
felt  certain.  For  she  meant  to  know  him.  Garstin's  brutal 
comment  on  him  had  not  frightened  her.    She  did  not  believe 

175 


176  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

it  to  be  just.  Garstin  was  always  brutal  in  his  comments. 
And  he  lived  so  perpetually  among  shady,  or  more  than  shady, 
people  that  it  was  difficult  for  him  to  believe  in  the  decency 
of  anybody  who  was  worth  knowing.  For  him  the  world 
seemed  to  be  divided  into  the  hopelessly  dull  and  conventional, 
who  did  not  count,  and  the  definitely  outrageous,  who  were 
often  interesting  and  worthy  of  being  studied  and  sometimes 
painted.  It  must  be  obvious  to  anyone  that  the  living  bronze 
could  not  be  numbered  among  the  merely  dull  and  conven- 
tional. Naturally  enough,  then,  Garstin  supposed  him  to  be  a 
successful  blackmailer.  Miss  Van  Tuyn  was  not  going  to  allow 
herself  to  be  influenced  by  the  putrescence  of  Garstin's  mind. 
She  had  her  own  views  on  everything  and  usually  held  to 
them.  She  had  quite  decided  that  she  would  get  to  know 
the  living  bronze  through  Garstin,  who  always  managed  to 
know  anyone  he  was  interested  in.  Being  totally  unconven- 
tional and  not,  as  he  said,  caring  a  damn  about  the  proprie- 
ties,  if  he  wished  to  speak  to  someone  he  spoke  to  him,  if  he 
wished  to  paint  him  he  told  him  to  come  along  to  the  studio. 
There  was  a  simplicity  about  Garstin's  methods  which  was 
excused  in  some  degree  by  his  fame.  But  if  he  had  not  been 
famous  he  would  have  acted  in  just  the  same  way.  No  shyness 
hindered  him;  no  doubts  about  himself  ever  assailed  him.  He 
just  did  what  he  wanted  to  do  without  arriere  pensee.  There 
was  certainly  strength  in  Garstin,  although  it  was  not  moral 
strength. 

The  morning  after  the  dinner  in  Soho  Miss  Van  Tuyn  tele- 
graphed to  Fanny  Cronin  to  come  over  at  once,  with  Bourget's 
latest  works,  and  engaged  an  apartment  at  Claridge's.  Although 
she  sometimes  dined  in  the  shadow  of  Vesuvius,  she  preferred 
to  issue  forth  from  some  lair  which  was  unmistakably  smart 
and  comfortable.  Claridge's  was  both,  and  everybody  came 
there.  Miss  Cronin  wired  obedience  and  would  be  on  the 
way  immediately.  Meanwhile  Miss  Van  Tuyn  received 
Craven's  note  in  answer  to  hers. 

She  grasped  all  its  meaning,  surface  and  subterranean,  im- 
mediately. It  meant  a  very  polite,  very  carefully  masked,  with- 
drawal from  the  sphere  of  her  influence.  The  passage  about 
Soho  was  perfectly  clear  to  her  mind,  although  to  many  it 
might  have  seemed  to  convey  an  agreeably  worded  acceptance 


CHAPTER  V  DECEMBER  LOVE  177 

of  her  suggestion,  only  laying  its  translation  into  action  in 
a  rather  problematical  future,  the  sort  of  future  which  would 
become  present  when  "neither  of  us  has  an  engagement." 

Craven  had  evidently  been  "got  at"  by  Adela  Sellingworth. 

On  the  morning  after  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  telegram  to  Paris 
Fanny  Cronin  arrived,  with  Bourget's  latest  book  in  her  hand, 
and  later  they  settled  in  at  Claridge's.  Miss  Cronin  went  to 
bed,  and  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  who  had  no  engagement  for  that 
evening,  went  presently  to  the  telephone.  Although  in  her 
note  to  Craven  by  implication  she  had  left  it  to  him  to  sug- 
gest a  tete-a-tete  dinner  in  Soho,  she  was  now  resolved  to  ask 
him.  She  was  a  girl  of  the  determined  modern  type,  not  much 
troubled  by  delicacies  or  inclined  to  wait  humbly  on  the  pleas- 
ure of  men.  If  a  man  did  not  show  her  the  way,  she  was  quite 
ready  to  show  the  way  to  him.  Without  being  precisely  of  the 
huntress  type,  she  knew  how  to  take  bow  and  arrow  in  her 
hand. 

She  rang  up  Craven,  and  the  following  dialogue  took  place 
at  the  telephone. 

"Yes?    Yes?" 

"Is  Mr.  Craven  there?" 

"Yes,  I  am  Alick  Craven.    Who  is  it,  please?" 

"Don't  you  know  ?" 

"One  minute !    Is  it— I'm  afraid  I  don't." 

"Beryl  Van  Tuyn." 

"Of  course!  I  knew  the  voice  at  once,  but  somehow  I 
couldn't  place  it.    How  are  you,  Miss  Van  Tuyn?" 

"Dangerously  well." 

"That's  splendid." 

"And  you?" 

"I'm  what  dull  people  call  very  fit  and  cheery." 

"How  dreadful!  Now,  tell  me — are  you  engaged  to-night? 
I'm  sure  you  aren't,  because  I  want  you  to  take  me  to  dine  at 
the  Bella  Napoli.  We  agreed  to  tell  each  other  when  we  were 
free.     So  I  take  you  at  your  word." 

"Oh,  I'm  awfully  sorry !" 

"What?" 

"I'm  ever  so  sorry." 

"Why?" 

"I  have  a  dinner  engagement  to-night." 


178  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

"What  a  bore !    But  surely  you  can  get  out  of  it  ?" 

"I'm  afraid  not.    No,  really  I  can't." 

"Send  an  excuse!     Say  you  are  ill." 

"I  can't  honestly.  It's — it's  rather  important.  Besides,  the 
fact  is,  I'm  the  host." 

"Oh!" 

The  timbre  of  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  voice  changed  slightly  at  this 
crisis  in  the  conversation. 

"Oh — if  you're  the  host,  of  course.  .  .  .  You  really  are  the 
host?" 

"Yes,  I  really  am.    So  you  see !" 

"No,  but  I  hear  and  understand.  Never  mind.  Ask  me  an- 
other night." 

"Yes — that's  it.  Another  night.  Thank  you  so  much.  By 
the  way,  does  the  living  bronze " 

"What?    The  living  what?" 

"Bronze!  .  .  .  The  living  bronze " 


"Oh,  yes.    Well,  what  about  it  ?" 

"Does  it  wear  petticoats  or  trousers  ?" 

"Trousers." 

"Then  I  think  I  rather  hate  it." 

"You " 

But  at  this  point  the  exchange  intervened.  Then  something 
happened;  and  then  Craven  heard  a  voice  saying: 

"No,  darling !  It's  the  teeth — the  teeth  on  the  left-hand  side. 
You  know  when  we  were  at  the  Carlton  I  was  in  agony.  Tell 
Annie  not  to " 

It  was  useless  to  persist.  Besides,  he  did  not  want  to.  So 
he  put  up  the  receiver.  Almost  immediately  afterwards  he  was 
rung  up  by  Lady  Sellingworth,  hung  on  the  edge  of  disap- 
pointment for  an  instant,  and  then  was  caught  back  into 
happiness. 

When  he  finally  left  the  telephone  and  went  to  his  bed- 
room to  change  his  clothes,  but  not  to  "dress,"  he  thanked  God 
for  having  clinched  matters  so  swifty.  Lady  Sellingworth  had 
certainly  meant  to  let  him  down.  Some  instinct  had  told 
him  what  to  say  to  her  to  make  her  change  her  mind.  At 
least,  he  supposed  so.  For  she  had  abruptly  changed  her 
mind  after  hearing  of  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  invitation.  But  why 
had  she  meant  to  give  up  the  dinner?    What  had  happened 


CHAPTER  V  DECEMBER  LOVE  179 

between  his  exit  from  her  house  and  her  ringing  him 
up?  For  he  could  not  believe  in  the  excuse  of  ill-health  put 
forward  by  her.  He  was  puzzled.  Women  certainly  were  diffi- 
cult to  understand.  But  it  was  all  right  now.  His  audacity 
— for  he  thought  it  rather  audacious  of  him  to  have  asked 
Lady  Sellingworth  to  dine  alone  with  him  at  the  Bella  Napoli — 
was  going  to  be  rewarded.  As  he  changed  his  clothes  he 
hummed  to  himself : 

''O  Napoli!  bella  Napoli!" 

At  Claridge's  meanwhile  Miss  Van  Tuyn  was  not  humming. 
As  she  came  away  from  the  telephone  she  felt  in  a  very  bad 
temper.  Things  were  not  going  well  for  her  just  now  in  Lon- 
don, and  she  was  accustomed  to  things  going  well.  As  in 
Craven's  letter,  so  just  now  at  the  telephone,  she  had  been 
aware  of  resistance,  of  a  distinct  holding  back  from  her  influ- 
ence. This  was  a  rare  experience  for  her,  and  she  resented 
it.  She  believed  Craven's  excuse  for  not  dining  with  her. 
It  was  incredible  that  a  young  man  who  had  nothing  to  do 
would  refuse  to  pass  an  evening  in  her  company.  No ;  he  was 
engaged.  But  she  had  felt  at  the  telephone  that  he  was  not 
sorry  he  was  engaged;  she  still  felt  it.  He  was  going  to 
do  something  which  he  preferred  doing  to  dining  with  her. 
The  tell-tale  line  showed  itself  in  her  low  white  forehead. 

Fanny  Cronin  had  gone  to  bed;  otherwise  they  might  have 
dined  downstairs  in  the  restaurant,  where  they  would  have 
been  sure  of  meeting  people  whom  Miss  Van  Tuyn  knew.  She 
did  not  choose  to  go  down  and  dine  alone.  A  lonely  dinner  fol- 
lowed by  a  lonely  evening  upstairs  did  not  appeal  to  her;  for 
a  moment,  like  Lady  Sellingworth  in  Berkeley  Square,  she  felt 
the  oppression  of  solitude.  She  went  to  the  window  of  her 
sitting-room,  drew  the  curtain  back,  pulled  aside  the  blind, 
and  looked  out.  The  night  was  going  to  be  fine;  the  sky 
was  clear  and  starry;  the  London  outside  drew  her.  For  a 
moment  she  thought  of  telephoning  to  Garstin  to  come  out 
somewhere  and  dine  with  her.  He  was  rude  to  her,  seldom 
paid  her  a  compliment,  and  never  made  love  to  her.  But  he 
was  famous  and  interesting.  They  could  always  get  on  in  a 
tete-a-tete  conversation.  And  then  there  was  now  the  link  be- 
tween them  of  the  living  bronze  and  her  plan  with  which  Garstin 
was  connected.     She  meant  to  know  that  man;  she  meant  it 


180  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

more  strongly  now  that  Craven  was  behaving  so  strangely.  She 
dropped  the  blind,  drew  the  curtains  forward,  went  to  the 
fire,  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

She  wondered  where  Craven  was  dining.  At  some  delight- 
ful restaurant  with  someone  he  liked  very  much.  She  was  quite 
sure  of  that;  or — perhaps  he  had  told  her  a  lie!  Perhaps  he 
was  dining  at  Number  i8a,  Berkeley  Square!  Suddenly  she 
felt  certain  that  she  had  hit  on  the  truth.  That  was  it!  He 
was  dining  in  Berkeley  Square  with  Adela  Sellingworth.  They 
were  going  to  have  another  evening  together.  Possessed  by 
this  conviction,  and  acting  on  an  almost  fierce  impulse — for  her 
vanity  was  now  suffering  severely — she  went  again  to  the  tele- 
phone and  rang  up  Lady  Sellingworth.  When  she  was  put 
through,  and  heard  the  characteristic  husky  voice  of  her  so- 
called  friend  at  the  other  end  of  the  line,  she  begged  Lady 
Sellingworth  to  come  and  dine  at  Claridge's  that  night  and 
have  a  quiet  talk  over  things.  As  she  had  expected,  she  got 
a  refusal.  Lady  Sellingworth  was  engaged.  Miss  Van  Tuyn, 
with  a  discreet  half-question,  half-expression  of  disappoint- 
ment, elicited  the  fact  that  Lady  Sellingworth  was  dining  out, 
not  having  people  at  home.  The  conversation  concluded  at  both 
ends  with  charming  expressions  of  regret,  and  promises  to  be 
together  as  soon  as  was  humanly  possible. 

Again  Miss  Van  Tuyn  believed  an  excuse;  again  her  in- 
stinct told  her  that  she  had  invited  someone  to  dine  who  was 
glad  to  be  engaged.  There  was  only  one  explanation  of  the 
two  happy  refusals.  She  was  now  absolutely  positive  that  Lady 
Sellingworth  and  Craven  were  going  to  dine  together,  and  not 
in  Berkeley  Square,  and  Craven  was  going  to  be  the  host,  as 
he  had  said.  He  had  invited  Lady  Sellingworth  to  go  out  and 
dine  somewhere  alone  with  him,  and  she  had  consented  to 
do  so.  Where  would  they  go?  She  thought  of  the  Bella 
Napoli.  It  was  very  unlikely  that  they  would  meet  anyone 
there  whom  they  both  knew,  and  they  had  met  at  the  Bella 
Napoli.  Perhaps  they — or  perhaps  she — had  romantic  recol- 
lections connected  with  it!  Perhaps  they  had  arranged  the 
other  evening  to  dine  there  again — and  without  Beryl  Van  Tuyn 
this  time!  If  so,  the  intervention  at  the  telephone  must  have 
seemed  an  ironic  stroke  to  them  both. 

For  a  moment  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  injured  vanity  made  her  feel 


CHAPTER  V  DECEMBER  LOVE  181 

as  if  they  were  involved  in  a  plot  directed  against  her  and  her 
happiness,  as  if  they  had  both  behaved  abominably  to  her. 
She  had  always  been  so  charming  to  Lady  Sellingworth,  had 
always  praised  her,  had  taken  her  part,  had  even  had  quite  a 
cult  for  her !  It  was  very  disgusting.  It  showed  Miss  Van  Tuyn 
how  right  she  had  been  in  generally  cultivating  men  instead 
of  women.  For,  of  course,  Craven  could  not  get  out  of 
things  with  an  experienced  rusee  woman  of  the  world  like 
Adela  Sellingworth.  Women  of  that  type  always  knew  how  to 
"corner"  a  man,  especially  if  he  were  young  and  had  decent 
instincts.     Poor  Craven! 

But  at  the  telephone  Miss  Van  Tuyn  had  felt  that  Craven 
was  glad  to  be  engaged  that  evening,  that  he  was  looking  for- 
ward to  something. 

After  sitting  still  for  a  few  minutes,  always  with  the  tell-tale 
line  in  her  forehead,  Miss  Van  Tuyn  got  up  with  an  air  of 
purpose.  She  went  to  a  door  at  the  end  of  the  sitting-room, 
opened  it,  crossed  a  lobby,  opened  double  doors,  and  entered 
a  bedroom  in  which  a  large,  mild-looking  woman,  with  square 
cheeks,  chestnut-coloured  smooth  hair,  large,  chestnut-coloured 
eyes  under  badly  painted  eyebrows,  and  a  mouth  with  teeth  that 
suggested  a  very  kind  and  well-meaning  rabbit,  was  lying  in 
bed  with  a  cup  and  a  pot  of  camomile  tea  beside  her,  and  Bour- 
get's  "Mensonges"  in  her  hand.  This  was  Fanny  Cronin,  orig- 
inally from  Philadelphia,  but  now  largely  French  in  a  simple 
and  unpretending  way.  The  painted  eyebrows  must  not  be 
taken  as  evidence  against  her.  They  were  the  only  artificiality 
of  which  Miss  Cronin  was  guilty;  and  as  an  unkind  fate  had 
absolutely  denied  her  any  eyebrows  of  her  own,  she  had  con- 
ceived it  only  decent  to  supply  their  place. 

"I've  got  back  to  'Mensonges/  Beryl,"  she  said,  as  she  saw 
Miss  Van  Tuyn.  "After  all,  there's  nothing  like  it.  It  bites 
right  into  one,  even  on  a  third  reading." 

"Dear  old  Fanny!  I'm  so  glad  you're  being  bitten  into.  I 
know  how  you  love  it,  and  I'm  not  going  to  disturb  you.  I 
only  came  to  tell  you  that  I'm  going  out  this  evening,  and  may 
possibly  come  back  late." 

"I  hope  you  will  enjoy  yourself,  dear,  and  meet  pleasant 
people." 

Miss  Cronin  was  thoroughly  well  trained,  and  seldom  asked 


182  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

any  questions.  She  had  long  ago  been  carefully  taught  that  the 
duty  of  a  dame  de  compagnie  consisted  solely  in  being  alive  in 
a  certain  place — the  place  selected  for  her  by  the  person  she  was 
dame  de  compagnie  to.  It  was,  after  all,  an  easy  enough  pro- 
fession so  long  as  a  beneficent  Providence  permitted  your  heart 
to  beat  and  your  lungs  to  function.  The  place  at  present  was 
Claridge's  Hotel.  She  had  nothing  to  do  except  to  He  com- 
fortably in  bed  there.  And  this  small  feat,  well  within  her  com- 
petence, she  was  now  accomplishing  with  complete  satisfac- 
tion to  herself.  She  took  a  happy  sip  of  her  camomile  tea  and 
added : 

"But  I  know  you  always  do  that.  You  have  such  a  wide 
choice  and  are  so  clever  in  selection." 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  slightly  frowned. 

"There  isn't  such  a  wide  choice  in  London  as  there  is  in 
Paris,"  she  said  rather  morosely. 

"I  dare  say  not.  Paris  is  much  smaller  than  London,  but 
much  cleverer,  I  think.  Where  would  you  find  an  author  like 
Bourget  among  the  English  ?  Which  of  them  could  have  writ- 
ten 'Mensonge/f    Which  of  them  could " 

"I  know,  dear,  I  know!  They  haven't  the  bite.  That  is 
what  you  mean.    They  have  only  the  bark." 

"Exactly !    And  when  one  sits  down  to  a  book " 

"Just  so,  dear.  The  dog  that  can  only  bark  is  a  very  dull  dog. 
I  saw  a  wonderful  dog  the  other  day  that  looked  as  if  it  could 
bite." 

"Indeed!    In  London?" 

"Yes.    But  I'm  sure  it  wasn't  English." 

"Was  it  a  poodle?" 

"No,  quite  the  contrary." 

Fanny  Cronin  looked  rather  vague.  She  was  really  trying 
to  think  what  dog  was  quite  the  contrary  of  a  poodle,  but, 
after  the  Channel,  her  mind  was  unequal  to  the  effort.  So  she 
took  another  sip  of  the  camomile  tea  and  said : 

"What  colour  was  it?" 

"It  was  all  brown  like  a  brown  bronze.  Well,  good  night, 
Fanny." 

"Good  night,  dear.  I  really  wish  you  would  read  'Mensonges' 
again  when  I  have  finished  with  it.  One  cannot  read  over  these 
masterpieces  too  often." 


CHAPTER  V  DECEMBER  LOVE  183 

"You  shall  lend  it  me." 

She  went  out  of  the  room,  and  Fanny  Cronin  settled  com- 
fortably down  once  more  to  the  competent  exercise  of  her 
profession. 

It  was  now  nearly  eight  o'clock.  Miss  Van  Tuyn  went  to 
her  bedroom.  She  had  a  maid  with  her,  but  she  did  not  ring 
for  the  woman.  Instead  she  shut  her  door,  and  began  to  "do" 
things  for  herself.  She  began  by  taking  off  her  gown  and  put- 
ting on  a  loose  wrapper.  Then  she  sat  down  before  the  dress- 
ing-table and  changed  the  way  in  which  her  corn-coloured  hair 
was  done,  making  it  sit  much  closer  to  the  head  than  before, 
and  look  much  less  striking  and  conspicuous.  The  new  way 
of  doing  her  hair  changed  her  appearance  considerably,  made 
her  less  like  a  Ceres  and  more  like  a  Puritan.  When  she  was 
quite  satisfied  with  her  hair  she  got  out  of  her  wrapper,  and 
presently  put  on  an  absolutely  plain  black  coat  and  skirt,  a 
black  hat  which  came  down  very  low  on  her  forehead,  a  black 
veil  and  black  suede  gloves.  Then  she  took  a  tightly  furled 
umbrella  with  an  ebony  handle  out  of  her  wardrobe,  picked  up 
her  purse,  unlocked  her  door  and  stepped  out  into  the  lobby. 

Her  French  maid  appeared  from  somewhere.  She  was  a 
rather  elderly  woman  with  a  clever,  but  not  unpleasantly  subtle, 
face.  Miss  Van  Tuyn  said  a  few  words  to  her  in  a  low  voice, 
opened  the  lobby  door  and  went  out. 

She  took  the  lift,  glided  down,  walked  slowly  and  care- 
lessly across  the  hall  and  passed  out  by  the  swing  door. 

"A  taxi,  madam?"  said  the  commissionaire  in  livery. 

She  shook  her  head  and  walked  away  down  Brook  Street  in 
the  direction  of  Grosvenor  Square. 

As  Craven  had  predicted  it  was  a  fine  clear  night,  dry  under- 
foot, starry  overhead.  If  Miss  Van  Tuyn  had  had  with  her  a 
chosen  companion  she  would  have  enjoyed  her  walk.  She  was 
absolutely  self-possessed,  and  thoroughly  capable  of  taking  care 
of  herself.  No  terrors  of  London  affected  her  spirit.  But 
she  was  angry  and  bored  at  being  alone.  She  felt  almost  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life  neglected  and  even  injured.  And  she 
was  determined  to  try  to  find  out  whether  her  strong  suspicions 
about  Lady  Sellingworth  and  Craven  were  well  founded.  If 
really  Craven  was  giving  a  dinner  somewhere,  and  Lady  Selling- 
worth  was  dining  with  friends  somewhere  else,  she  had  no  spe- 


184  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

cial  reason  for  irritation.  She  might  possibly  be  mistaken  in 
her  unpleasant  conviction  that  both  of  them  had  something 
to  do  which  they  preferred  to  dining  with  her.  But  if  they 
were  dining  together  and  alone  she  would  know  exactly  how 
things  were  between  them.  For  neither  of  them  had  done 
what  would  surely  have  been  the  natural  thing  to  do  if  there 
were  no  desire  for  concealment;  neither  of  them  had  frankly 
stated  the  truth  about  the  dinner. 

"If  they  are  dining  together  they  don't  wish  me  to  know 
it,"  Miss  Van  Tuyn  said  to  herself,  as  she  walked  along 
Grosvenor  Square  and  turned  down  Carlos  Place.  "For  if  I 
had  known  it  they  might  have  felt  obliged  to  invite  me  to 
join  them,  as  I  was  inviting  them,  and  as  I  was  the  one  who 
introduced  Adela  Sellingworth  to  the  Bella  Napoli." 

And  as  she  remembered  this  she  felt  more  definitely  injured. 
For  she  had  taken  a  good  deal  of  trouble  to  persuade  Lady 
Sellingworth  to  dine  out  in  Soho,  had  taken  trouble  about  the 
food  and  about  the  music,  had,  in  fact,  done  ever>'thing  that 
was  possible  to  make  the  evening  entertaining  and  delightful 
to  her  friend.  It  was  even  she,  by  the  way,  who  had  beckoned 
Craven  to  their  table  and  had  asked  him  to  join  them  after 
dinner. 

And  in  return  for  all  this  Adela  Sellingworth  had  carried 
him  off,  and  perhaps  to-night  was  dining  with  him  alone  at  the 
Bella  Napoli! 

"These  old  beauties  are  always  the  most  unscrupulous  women 
in  the  world,"  thought  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  as  she  came  into  Berke- 
ley Square.  "They  never  know  when  to  stop.  They  are  never 
satisfied.  It's  bad  enough  to  be  with  a  greedy  child,  but  it's 
really  horrible  to  have  much  to  do  with  a  greedy  old  person. 
I  should  never  have  thought  that  Adela  Sellingworth  was  like 
this." 

It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  perhaps  some  day  she  would  be 
an  old  beauty  herself,  and  even  then  would  perhaps  still  want 
a  few  pleasures  and  joys  to  make  life  endurable  to  her. 

In  passing  through  Berkeley  Square  she  deliberately  walked 
on  the  left  side  of  it,  and  presently  came  to  the  house  where 
Lady  Sellingworth  lived.  The  big  mansion  was  dark.  As  Miss 
Van  Tuyn  went  by  it  she  felt  an  access  of  ill-humour,  and  for 
an  instant  she  knew  something  of  the  feeling  which  had  often 


CHAPTER  V  DECEMBER  LOVE  185 

come  to  its  owner — the  feeling  of  being  abandoned  to  loneliness 
in  the  midst  of  a  city  which  held  multitudes  who  were  having  a 
good  time. 

She  walked  on  towards  the  Berkeley,  thought  of  Piccadilly, 
retraced  her  steps,  turned  up  Hay  Hill,  crossed  Bond  Street, 
and  eventually  came  into  Regent  Street.  There  were  a  good 
many  people  here,  and  several  loitering  men  looked  hard  at  her. 
But  she  walked  composedly  on,  keeping  at  an  even  steady  pace. 
At  the  main  door  of  the  Cafe  Royal  three  or  four  men  v/ere 
lounging.  She  did  not  look  at  them  as  she  went  by.  But  pres- 
ently she  felt  that  she  was  being  followed.  This  did  not 
disturb  her.  She  often  went  out  alone  in  Paris  on  foot,  though 
not  at  night,  and  was  accustomed  to  being  followed.  She  knew 
perfectly  well  how  to  deal  with  impertinent  men.  In  Shaftes- 
bury Avenue  the  man  who  was  dogging  her  footsteps  came 
nearer,  and  presently,  though  she  did  not  turn  her  head,  she 
knew  that  he  was  walking  almost  level  with  her,  and  that  his 
eyes  were  fixed  steadily  on  her.  Without  altering  her  pace  she 
took  a  shilling  out  of  the  purse  she  was  carrying  and  held  it  in 
her  hand.  The  man  drew  up  till  he  was  walking  by  her  side. 
She  felt  that  he  was  going  to  speak  to  her.  She  stopped,  held 
out  the  hand  with  the  shilling  in  it,  and  said : 

"Here's  a  shilling !  Take  it.  I'm  sorry  I  can't  afford  more 
than  that." 

As  she  finished  speaking  for  the  first  time  she  looked  at 
her  pursuer,  and  met  the  brown  eyes  of  the  living  bronze.  He 
stood  for  an  instant  gazing  at  her  veil,  and  then  turned  round 
and  walked  away  in  the  direction  of  Regent  Street.  The  shilling 
dropped  from  her  hand  to  the  pavement.  She  did  not  try  to 
find  it,  but  at  once  went  on. 

It  was  very  seldom  that  her  self-possession  was  shaken.  It 
was  not  exactly  shaken  now.  But  the  recognition  of  the  stran- 
ger whom  she  had  been  thinking  about  in  the  man  who  had 
followed  her  in  the  street  had  certainly  startled  her.  For  a 
moment  a  strong  feeling  of  disgust  overcame  her,  and  she 
thought  of  Garstin's  brutal  comment  upon  this  man.  Was  he 
then  really  one  of  the  horrible  night  loungers  who  abound  in 
all  great  cities,  one  of  the  night  birds  who  come  out  when  the 
darkness  falls  with  vague  hopes  of  doing  evil  to  their  own  ad- 
vantage?   It  was  possible.    He  must  have  been  hanging  about 


186  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

near  the  door  of  the  Cafe  Royal  when  she  passed  and  watch- 
ing the  passers-by.  He  must  have  seen  her  then.  Could  he 
have  recognized  her?  In  that  case  perhaps  he  was  merely  an 
adventurous  fellow  who  had  been  pushed  to  the  doing  of  an 
impertinent  thing  by  his  strong  admiration  of  her.  As  she 
thought  this  she  happened  to  be  passing  a  lit-up  shop,  a  tobac- 
conist's, which  had  mirrors  fixed  on  each  side  of  the  window. 
She  stopped  and  looked  into  one  of  the  mirrors.  No,  he  could 
not  have  recognized  her  through  the  veil  she  was  wearing.  She 
felt  certain  of  that.  But  he  might  have  been  struck  by  her  fig- 
ure. He  might  have  noticed  it  that  night  at  the  Cafe  Royal, 
have  fancied  he  recognized  it  to-night,  and  have  followed  her 
because  he  was  curious  to  know  whether,  or  not,  she  was  the 
girl  he  had  already  seen  and  admired.  And  of  course,  as  she 
was  walking  in  Regent  Street  alone  at  night,  he  must  have 
thought  her  a  girl  who  would  not  mind  being  spoken  to.  It 
was  her  own  fault  for  being  so  audacious,  so  determined  always 
to  do  what  she  wanted  to  do,  however  unconventional,  even 
outrageous — according  to   commonplace  ideas — it  was. 

She  forgave  the  man  his  impertinence  and  smiled  as  she 
thought  of  his  abrupt  departure.  If  he  were  really  a  night  bird 
he  would  surely  have  stood  his  ground.  He  would  not  have 
been  got  rid  of  so  easily.  No ;  he  would  probably  have  coolly 
pocketed  the  shilling,  and  then  have  entered  into  conversa- 
tion with  her,  have  chaffed  her  vulgarly  about  her  methods 
with  admirers,  and  have  asked  her  to  go  to  a  cafe  or  some- 
where with  him,  and  to  spend  the  shilling  and  other  shillings 
in  his  company. 

No  doubt  he  had  been  waiting  for  a  friend  at  the  door 
of  the  Cafe  Royal,  had  seen  her  go  by,  and  had  yielded  to  an 
impulse  prompting  him  to  an  adventure.  He  was  not  an  Eng- 
lishman or  an  American.  She  felt  certain  of  that.  And  she 
knew  very  well  the  views  many  foreigners,  especially  Latins, 
even  of  good  birth  hold  about  the  propriety  of  showing  their 
admiration  for  women  in  the  street. 

She  was  glad  she  had  had  a  thick  veil  on.  If  later  she 
made  acquaintance  with  this  man,  she  did  not  wish  him  to 
know  that  she  and  the  girl  who  had  offered  him  a  shilling  were 
one  and  the  same.  If  he  knew  she  might  be  at  a  certain 
disadvantage  with  him. 


CHAPTER  V  DECEMBER  LOVE  187 

She  turned  into  Soho  and  was  immediately  conscious  of  a 
slightly  different  atmosphere.  There  were  fewer  people  about 
and  the  street  was  not  so  brightly  lit  up,  or  at  any  rate  seemed 
to  her  darker.  She  heard  voices  speaking  Italian  in  the 
shadows.  The  lights  of  small  restaurants  glimmered  faintly  on 
the  bone-dry  pavement.  She  was  nearing  the  Bella  Napoli. 
Soon  she  heard  the  distant  sound  of  guitars. 

Where  she  was  walking  at  this  moment  there  was  no  one. 
She  stood  still  for  an  instant  considering.  If  Lady  Selling- 
worth  and  Craven  were  really  dining  together,  as  she  suspected, 
and  at  the  Bella  Napoli,  she  could  see  them  from  the  street 
if  they  had  a  table  near  the  window.  If  they  were  not  seated 
near  the  window  she  might  not  be  able  to  see  them.  In  that 
case,  what  was  she  going  to  do? 

After  a  moment's  thought  she  resolved  that  if  she  did  not 
see  them  from  the  street  she  would  go  into  the  restaurant  and 
dine  there  alone.  They  would  see  her  of  course,  if  they  were 
there,  and  would  no  doubt  be  surprised  and  decidedly  uncom- 
fortable. But  that  could  not  be  helped.  Having  come  so  far 
she  was  determined  not  to  go  back  to  the  hotel  without  mak- 
ing sure  whether  her  suspicion  was  correct.  If,  on  the  other 
hand,  they  were  dining  at  a  table  near  the  window  she  resolved 
not  to  enter  the  restaurant. 

Having  come  to  this  decision  she  walked  on. 

The  musicians  were  playing  "O  Sole  mio !"  And  as  the  music 
grew  more  distinct  in  her  ears  she  felt  more  solitary,  more 
injured  and  more  ill-humoured.  Music  of  that  type  makes 
youth  feel  that  the  world  ought  of  right  to  belong  to  it,  that 
the  old  are  out  of  place  in  the  regions  of  adventure,  romance 
and  passion,  that  they  should  not  hang  about  where  they  are 
no  longer  wanted,  like  beggars  about  the  door  of  a  house  in 
which  happy  people  are  feasting. 

"Such  music  is  for  me  not  for  Adela  Sellingworth,"  thought 
Miss  Van  Tuyn.  "Let  her  listen  to  Bach  and  Beethoven,  or  to 
Brahms  if  she  likes.  She  can  have  the  classics  and  the  in- 
tellectuals.   But  the  songs  of  Naples  are  for  me,  not  for  her." 

And  at  that  moment  she  felt  very  hard,  even  cruel. 

She  came  up  to  the  restaurant.  The  window  was  lighted 
up  brilliantly.  No  blind  was  drawn  over  it.  There  was  opaque 
glass  at  the  bottom,  but  not  at  the  top.    She  was  tall  and  could 


188  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

look  through  the  glass  at  the  top.  She  did  so,  and  at  once 
saw  Lady  SelHngworth  and  Craven. 

They  were  sitting  at  Iter  table — the  table  which  was  always 
reserved  for  her  when  she  dined  at  the  Bella  Napoli,  and  at 
which  she  had  entertained  Lady  Sellingworth ;  and  they  were 
talking — confidentially,  eagerly,  she  thought.  Lady  Selling- 
worth  looked  unusually  happy  and  animated,  even  perhaps  a 
little  younger  than  usual.  Yes !  Very  old,  but  younger  than 
usual !  They  were  not  eating  at  the  moment,  but  were  no 
doubt  waiting  for  a  course.  Craven  was  leaning  forward  to 
his  companion.  The  guitars  still  sounded.  But  these  two  had 
apparently  so  much  to  say  to  one  another  that  they  had  neither 
time  nor  inclination  to  listen  to  the  music. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  stood  very  still  on  the  pavement  staring  into 
the  restaurant. 

But  suddenly  Craven,  as  if  attracted  by  something,  turned 
abruptly  half  round  towards  the  window.  Instantly  Miss  Van 
Tuyn  moved  away.  He  could  not  have  seen  her.  But  perhaps 
he  had  felt  that  she — or  rather  of  course  that  someone — was 
there.  For  he  could  not  possibly  have  felt  that  she.  Beryl 
Van  Tuyn,  was  there  looking  in. 

After  drawing  back  Miss  Van  Tuyn  walked  slowly  away. 
She  was  considering  something,  debating  something  within 
herself.  Should  she  go  in  and  dine  alone  in  the  restaurant? 
By  doing  so  she  would  certainly  make  those  two  who  had  treated 
her  badly  uncomfortable ;  she  would  probably  spoil  the  rest  of 
their  evening.  Should  she  do  that?  Some  indelicate  devil 
prompted  her,  urged  her,  to  do  it.  It  would  "serve  them  right," 
she  thought.  Adela  Sellingworth  especially  deserved  a  touch 
of  the  whip.  But  it  would  be  an  undignified  thing  to  do.  They 
would  never  know  of  course  why  she  had  come  alone  to  the 
Bella  Napoli!  They  would  think  that,  being  audaciously  un- 
conventional, she  had  just  drifted  in  there  because  she  had  noth- 
ing else  to  do,  as  Craven  had  drifted  in  alone  the  other  night. 
She  wanted  to  do  it.    Yet  she  hesitated  to  do  it. 

Finally  she  gave  up  the  idea.  She  felt  malicious,  but  she 
could  not  quite  make  up  her  mind  to  dine  alone  where  they 
would  see  her.  Probably  they  would  feel  obliged  to  ask  her 
to  join  them.  But  she  would  not  join  them.  Nothing  could 
induce  her  to  do  that.     And  was  she  to  come  over  to  them 


CHAPTER  V  DECEMBER  LOVE  189 

when  coffee  was  brought,  as  Craven  had  come  at  her  invita- 
tion? No;  that  would  be  a  condescension  unworthy  of  her 
beauty  and  youth.  Her  fierce  vanity  forbade  it,  even  though 
her  feeling  of  malice  told  her  to  do  it. 

Her  vanity  won.  She  walked  on  and  came  into  Shaftesbury 
Avenue. 

"I  know  what  I'll  do,"  she  said  to  herself.  "I'll  go  and  dine 
upstairs  at  the  Cafe  Royal,  and  go  into  the  cafe  downstairs 
afterwards.     Garstin  is  certain  to  be  there." 

Garstin — and  others ! 

This  time  she  obeyed  her  inclination.  Not  many  minutes 
later  she  was  seated  at  a  table  in  a  corner  of  the  restaurant 
at  the  Cafe  Royal,  and  was  carefully  choosing  a  dinner. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  more  he  thought  over  his  visit  to  Adela  Sellingworth 
the  more  certain  did  Francis  Braybrooke  become  that  it 
had  not  gone  off  well.  For  once  he  had  not  played  his  cards 
to  the  best  advantage.  He  felt  sure  that  inadvertently  he  had 
irritated  his  hostess.  Her  final  dismissal  of  the  subject  of 
young  Craven's  possible  happiness  with  Beryl  Van  Tuyn,  if 
circumstances  should  ever  bring  them  together,  had  been  very 
abrupt.    She  had  really  almost  kicked  it  out  of  the  conversation. 

But  then,  she  had  never  been  fond  of  discussing  love  affairs. 
Braybrooke  had  noticed  that. 

As  he  considered  the  matter  he  began  to  feel  rather  uneasy. 
Was  it  possible  that  Adela  Sellingworth — his  mind  hesitated, 
then  took  the  unpleasant  leap — that  Adela  Sellingv/orth  was 
beginning  to  like  young  Craven  in  an  unsuitable  way  ? 

Craven  certainly  had  behaved  oddly  when  Adela  Sellingworth 
had  been  discussed  between  them,  and  when  Craven  had  been 
the  subject  of  discussion  with  Adela  Sellingworth  she  had  be- 
haved curiously.  There  was  something  behind  it  all.  Of  that 
Braybrooke  was  convinced.  But  his  perplexity  and  doubt  in- 
creased to  something  like  agitation  a  few  days  later  when  he 
met  a  well-born  woman  of  his  acquaintance,  who  had  "gone  in 
for"  painting  and  living  her  own  Ife,  and  had  become  a  bit  of 
a  Bohemian.  She  had  happened  to  mention  that  she  had  seen 
his  friend,  "that  wonderful-looking  Lady  Sellingworth,"  din- 
ing at  the  Bella  Napoli  on  a  recent  evening.  Naturally  Bray- 
brooke supposed  that  the  allusion  was  to  the  night  of  Lady 
Sellingworth's  dinner  with  Beryl  Van  Tuyn,  and  he  spoke  of 
the  lovely  girl  as  Lady  Sellingworth's  companion.  But  his 
informant,  looking  rather  surpri'^ed,  told  him  that  Lady  Selling- 
worth  had  been  with  a  very  handsome  young  man,  and,  on 
discreet  inquiry  being  made,  gave  an  admirable  description, 
from  the  painter's  point  of  view,  of  Craven. 

Braybrooke  said  nothing,  but  he  was  secretly  almost  dis- 

190 


CHAPTER  VI  DECEMBER  LOVE  191 

tressed.  He  thought  it  such  a  mistake  for  his  distinguished 
friend  to  go  wandering  about  in  Soho  alone  with  a  mere 
boy.  It  was  undignified.  It  was  not  the  thing.  He  could  not 
understand  it  unless  really  she  was  losing  her  head.  And  then 
he  remembered  her  past.  Although  he  never  spoke  of  it,  and 
now  seldom  thought  about  it,  Braybrooke  knew  very  well  what 
sort  of  woman  Adela  Sellingworth  had  been.  But  her  dignified 
life  of  ten  years  had  really  almost  wiped  her  former  escapades 
out  of  his  recollection.  There  seemed  to  be  a  gulf  fixed  between 
the  professional  beauty  and  the  white-haired  recluse  of  Berke- 
ley Square.  When  he  looked  at  her,  sat  with  her  now,  if  he 
ever  gave  a  thought  to  her  past  it  was  accompanied,  or  imme- 
diately followed,  by  a  mental  question:  "Was  it  she  who  did 
that  ?"  or  "Can  sh^  ever  have  been  like  that  ?" 

But  now  Braybrooke  uneasily  began  to  remember  Lady  Sell- 
ingworth's  past  reputation  and  to  think  of  the  "old  guard." 

If  she  were  to  fall  back  into  folly  now,  after  what  she  had 
done  ten  years  ago,  the  "old  guard"  would  show  her  no  mercy. 
Her  character  would  be  torn  to  pieces.  He  regretted  very  much 
his  introduction  of  Craven  into  her  life.  But  how  could  he 
have  thought  that  she  would  fascinate  a  boy? 

After  much  careful  thought — for  he  took  his  social  respon- 
sibilities and  duties  very  seriously — he  resolved  to  take  action 
on  the  lines  which  had  occurred  to  him  when  he  first  began 
to  be  anxious  about  Craven's  feeling  towards  Adela  Selling- 
worth;  he  resolved  to  do  his  best  to  bring  Beryl  Van  Tuyn 
and  Craven  together.  "'if 

The  first  step  he  took  was  to  call  on  Miss  Cronin  when  Beryl 
Van  Tuyn  was  out.  He  went  to  Claridge's  to  inquire  for 
Miss  Van  Tuyn.  On  ascertaining  that  she  was  not  at  home 
he  sent  up  his  name  to  Miss  Cronin,  who  was  practically  always 
in  the  house.  At  any  rate,  Braybrooke,  who  had  met  her 
several  times  at  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  apartment  in  Paris,  had  un- 
derstood so  from  herself.  If  Miss  Van  Tuyn  needed  her  as 
a  chaperon  she  was,  of  course,  to  be  counted  upon  to  risk 
taking  air  and  exercise.  Otherwise,  "as  she  frankly  said,  she 
preferred  to  stay  quietly  at  home.  By  nature  she  was  seden- 
tary. Her  temperament  inclined  her  to  a  sitting  posture,  which, 
however,  she  frequently  varied  by  definitely  lying  down. 

On  this  occasion  Miss  Cronin  was  as  usual  in  the  house,  and 


192  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

begged  that  Mr.  Braybrooke  would  come  up.  He  found  her 
in  an  arm-chair — she  had  just  vacated  a  large  sofa — with 
Bourget's  "Le  Disciple"  in  her  hand.  Her  eyebrows  were 
rather  dim,  for  she  had  caught  a  slight  London  cold  which 
had  led  her  to  neglect  them.  But  she  was  looking  mildly  cheer- 
ful, and  was  very  glad  to  have  a  visitor.  Though  quite  happy 
alone  with  Bourget  she  was  always  ready  for  a  comfortable 
gossip;  and  she  liked  Francis  Braybrooke. 

After  a  few  words  about  the  cold,  Bourget  and  Paris,  Bray- 
brooke turned  the  conversation  to  Miss  Van  Tuyn.  He  had  un- 
derstood that  she  meant  only  to  make  a  short  stay  in  London, 
and  rather  wondered  about  the  change  of  plans  which  had 
brought  Miss  Cronin  across  the  Channel.  Miss  Cronin,  he 
soon  discovered,  was  rather  wondering  too. 

"Beryl  seems  to  have  been  quite  got  hold  of  by  London," 
she  observed  with  mild  surprise. 

After  a  pause  she  added  : 

"It  may  be — mind  I  don't  say  it  is,  but  it  may  be — the  Wal- 
lace Collection." 

"The  Wallace  Collection?"  said  Braybrooke. 

"I  believe  she  goes  there  every  day.  It  is  in  Manchester 
Square,  isn't  it?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"Then  I  think  it  must  be  that.  Because  two  or  three  times 
lately  I  have  heard  her  mention  Manchester  Square  as  if  it 
were  very  much  on  her  mind.  Once  I  remember  her  saying 
that  Manchester  Square  was  worth  all  the  rest  of  London 
put  together!  And  another  time  she  said  that  Manchester 
Square  ought  to  be  in  Paris.  That  struck  me  as  very  strange, 
but  after  making  inquiries  I  found  that  the  Wallace  Collection 
was  situated  there,  or  near  there." 

"Hertford  House  is  in  the  Square." 

"Then  it  is  that.  You  know  how  wrapped  up  Beryl  is  in 
that  kind  of  thing.  And,  of  course,  she  knows  all  the  Paris 
collections  by  heart.  Is  the  Wallace  Collection  large?  Does 
it  contain  much?" 

"It  contains  innumerable  priceless  treasures,"  returned  Bray- 
brooke. 

"Innumerable!  Dear  me!"  murmured  Fanny  Cronin,  man- 
aging to  lift  the  dimly  painted   eyebrows   in  a  distinctively" 


(CHAPTER  VI  DECEMBER  LOVE  193 

plaintive  manner.  "Then  I  dare  say  we  shall  be  here  for 
months." 

"You  don't  think,"  began  Braybrooke  with  exquisite  caution, 
"You  don't  think  that  possibly  she  may  have  a  more  human 
reason  for  remaining  in  London?" 

Fanny  Cronin  made  a  rabbit's  mouth  and  looked  slightly 
bemused. 

"Human !"  she  said.  "You  think  Beryl  could  have  a  human 
reason  ?" 

"Oh,  surely,  surely!" 

"But  she  prefers  bronzes  to  people.  I  assure  you  it  is  so. 
I  have  heard  her  say  that  you  can  never  be  disappointed  by 
a  really  good  bronze,  but  that  men  and  women  often  distress 
you  by  their  absurdities  and  follies." 

"That  sort  of  thing  is  only  the  outcome  of  a  passing  mood 
of  youthful  cynicism." 

"Is  it?  I  sometimes  think  that  a  bom  collector,  like  Beryl, 
sees  more  in  bronze  and  marble  than  in  flesh  and  blood.  She 
is  very  sweet,  but  she  has  quite  a  passion  for  possessing." 

"Is  not  the  greatest  possession  of  all  the  possession  of  an- 
other's human  heart?"  said  Braybrooke  impressively,  and  with 
sentiment. 

"I  dare  say  it  is,  but  really  I  cannot  speak  from  experience,'* 
said  Fanny  Cronin,  with  remarkable  simplicity. 

"Has  it  never  occurred  to  you,"  continued  Braybrooke,  "that 
your  lovely  charge  is  not  likely  to  remain  always  Beryl  Van 
Tuyn?" 

Miss  Cronin  looked  startled,  and  slightly  moved  her  ears, 
a  curious  habit  which  she  sometimes  indulged  in  under  the 
influence  of  sudden  emotion,  and  which  was  indicative  of 
mental  stress. 

"But  if  Beryl  ever  marries,"  she  said,  "I  might  have  to 
give  up  living  in  Paris !    I  might  have  to  go  back  to  America !" 

She  leaned  forward,  with  her  small,  plump,  and  conspicuously 
freckled  hands  grasping  the  arms  of  her  chair. 

"You  don't  think,  Mr.  Braybrooke,  that  Beryl  is  not  here 
for  the  Wallace  Collection?  You  don't  think  that  she  is  in 
love  with  someone  in  London  ?" 

Francis  Braybrooke  was  decidedly  taken  aback  by  this  abrupt 
emotional  outburst.    He  had  not  meant  to  provoke  it.    Indeed, 


194  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

in  his  preoccupation  with  Craven's  affairs  and  Adela  SeUing- 
worth's  possible  indiscretions — really  he  knew  of  no  gentler 
word  to  apply  to  what  he  had  in  mind — he  had  entirely  for- 
gotten that  Fanny  Cronin's  charming  profession  of  sitting  in 
deep  arm-chairs,  reposing  on  luxurious  sofas,  and  lying  in 
perfect  French  beds,  might,  indeed  would,  be  drastically  inter- 
fered with  by  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  marriage.  It  was  very  care- 
less of  him.    He  was  inclined  to  blame  himself  almost  severely. 

"My  dear  Miss  Cronin,"  he  hastily  exclaimed.  "If  you  were 
ever  to  think  of  changing  your — your" — he  could  not  find  the 
word ;  "condition"  would  not  do ;  "state  of  life"  suggested  the 
Catechism;  "profession"  was  preposterous,  besides,  he  did  not 
mean  that — "your  sofa" — he  had  got  it — "your  sofa  in  the  Ave- 
nue Henri  Martin  for  a  sofa  somewhere  else,  I  know  of  at 
least  a  dozen  charming  houses  in  Paris  which  would  gladly,  I 
might  say  thankfully,  open  their  doors  to  receive  you." 

This  really  was  a  lie.  At  the  moment  Braybrooke  did  not 
know  of  one.  But  he  hastily  made  up  his  mind  to  be  "respon- 
sible" for  Fanny  Cronin  if  anything  should  occur  through  his 
amiable  machinations. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Braybrooke.  You  are  kindness  itself.  So, 
then,  Beryl  is  going  to  marry !  And  she  never  hinted  it  to  me, 
although  we  talked  over  marriage  only  yesterday,  when  I  gave 
her  Bourget's  views  on  it  as  expressed  in  his  'Physiologie  de 
V amour  moderne.'    She  never  said  one  word.    She  never " 

But  at  this  point  Braybrooke  felt  that  an  interruption,  how- 
ever rude,  was  obligatory. 

"I  have  no  reason  whatever  to  suppose  that  Miss  Van  Tuyn 
is  thinking  of  marriage  at  this  moment,"  he  said,  in  an  almost 
shrill  voice. 

"But  surely  you  would  not  frighten  me  without  a  reason," 
said  Fanny  Cronin  with  mild  severity,  sitting  back  again  in 
her  chair. 

"Frighten  you,  dear  Miss  Cronin !  I  would  not  do  that  for 
the  world.    What  have  I  said  to  frighten  you  ?" 

"You  talked  of  my  changing  my  sofa  for  a  sofa  somewhere 
else!  If  Beryl  is  not  going  to  marry  why  should  I  think 
of  changing?" 

"But  nothing  lasts  for  ever.  The  whole  world  is  in  a  state 
of  flux." 


CHAPTER  VI  DECEMBER  LOVE  196 

"Really,  Mr.  Braybrooke !  I  am  quite  sure  /  am  not  in  a  state 
of  flux !"  said  Miss  Cronin  with  unusual  dignity.  "We  Ameri- 
can women,  you  must  understand,  have  our  principles  and  know 
how  to  preserve  them." 

"On  my  honour,  I  only  meant  that  life  inevitably  brings 
with  it  changes.    I  am  sure  you  will  bear  me  out  in  that." 

"I  don't  know  about  bearing  you  out,"  said  Miss  Cronin, 
looking  rather  helplessly  at  Francis  Braybrooke's  fairly  tall 
and  well-nourished  figure.  "But  why  should  Beryl  want  to 
change?    She  is  very  happy  as  she  is." 

"I  know — I  know.  But  surely  such  a  lovely  girl  is  certain 
to  marry  some  day.  And  can  we  wish  it  otherwise  ?  Some  day 
a  man  will  come  who  knows  how  to  appreciate  her  as  she 
deserves,  who  understands  her  nature,  who  is  ready  to  de- 
vote his  life  to  fulfilling  her  deepest  needs." 

Miss  Cronin  suddenly  looked  intelligent  and  at  the  same 
time  like  a  dragon.  Never  before  had  Braybrooke  seen  such 
an  expression  upon  her  face,  such  a  stiffening  of  dignity 
in  her  ample  figure.  She  sat  straight  up,  looked  him  full  in 
the  face,  and  observed: 

"I  understand  your  meaning,  Mr.  Braybrooke.  You  wish 
to  marry  Beryl.  Well,  you  must  forgive  me  for  saying  that 
I  think  you  are  much  too  old  for  her." 

Braybrooke  had  not  blushed  for  probably  at  least  forty  years, 
but  he  blushed  scarlet  now,  and  seized  his  beard  with  a  hand 
that  looked  thoroughly  unstrung. 

"My  dear  Miss  Cronin !"  he  said,  in  a  voice  which  was 
almost  hoarse  with  protest.     "You  absolutely  misunderstand 

me.     It  is  much  too  la I  mean  that  I  have  no  intention 

whatever  of  changing  my  condition.  No,  no!  Let  us  talk  of 
something  else.  So  you  are  reading  'Le  Disciple' "  (he  picked 
it  up).  "A  very  striking  book !  I  always  think  it  one  of  Bour- 
get's  very  best." 

He  poured  forth  an  energetic  cataract  of  words  in  praise  of 
Miss  Cronin's  favourite  author,  and  presently  got  away  without 
any  further  quite  definite  misunderstanding.  But  when  he 
was  out  in  the  corridor  on  his  way  to  the  lift  he  indulged 
himself  in  a  very  unwonted  expression  of  acrimonious  con- 
demnation. 

"Damn  these  red-headed  old  women!"  he  muttered  in  his 


196  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

beard.  "There's  no  doing  anything  with  them!  The  idea  of 
my  going  to  her  to  propose  for  Miss  Van  Tuyn !  What  next, 
I  wonder?" 

When  he  was  out  in  Brook  Street  he  hesitated  for  a  moment, 
then  took  out  his  watch  and  looked  at  it.  Half-past  three! 
He  thought  of  the  Wallace  Collection.  It  seemed  to  draw 
him  strangely  just  then.  He  put  his  watch  back  and  walked 
towards  Manchester  Square. 

He  had  gained  the  Square  and  was  about  to  enter  the  en- 
closure before  Hertford  House  by  the  gateway  on  the  left, 
when  he  saw  Miss  Van  Tuyn  come  out  by  the  gateway  on 
the  right,  and  walk  slowly  away  towards  Oxford  Street  in  deep 
conversation  with  a  small  horsey-looking  man,  whose  face  he 
could  not  see,  but  whose  back  and  legs,  and  whose  dress  and 
headgear,  strongly  suggested  to  him  the  ring  at  Newmarket 
and  the  Paddock  at  Ascot. 

Braybrooke  hesitated.  The  attraction  of  the  Wallace  Collec- 
tion no  longer  drew  him.  Besides,  it  was  getting  late.  On  the 
other  hand,  he  scarcely  liked  to  interrupt  an  earnest  tete-a-tete. 
If  it  had  not  been  that  he  was  exceptionally  strung  up  at  that 
moment  he  would  probably  have  gone  quietly  off  to  one  of 
his  clubs.  But  who  knew  what  that  foolish  old  woman  at 
Claridge's  might  say  to  Miss  Van  Tuyn  when  she  reached  her 
hotel?  It  really  was  essential  in  the  sacred  interest  of  truth 
that  he  should  forestall  Fanny  Cronin.  The  jockey — if  it  was  a 
jockey — Miss  Van  Tuyn  was  with  must  put  up  with  an  inter- 
ruption. But  the  interruption  must  be  brought  about  natu- 
rally. It  would  not  do  to  come  up  behind  them.  That  would 
seem  too  intrusive.  He  must  manage  to  skip  round  deftly  when 
the  occasion  offered,  and  by  a  piece  of  masterly  strategy  to  come 
upon  them  face  to  face. 

Seized  of  this  intention  Braybrooke  did  a  thing  he  had  never 
done  before;  he  "dogged"  two  human  beings,  walking  with 
infinite  precaution. 

His  quarry  presently  turned  into  the  thronging  crowds  of 
Oxford  Street  and  made  towards  the  Marble  Arch,  keeping  to 
the  right-hand  pavement.  Braybrooke  saw  his  opportunity. 
He  dodged  across  the  road  to  an  island,  waited  there  till  a 
policeman,  extending  a  woollen  thumb,  stopped  the  traffic,  then 
gained  the  opposite  pavement,  hurried  decorously  on  that  side 


CHAPTER  VI  DECEMBER  LOVE  19T 

towards  the  Marble  Arch,  and  after  a  sprint  of  perhaps  a  couple 
of  hundred  yards  recrossed  the  street  almost  at  the  risk  of 
his  life,  and  walked  warily  back  towards  Oxford  Circus,  keep- 
ing his  eyes  wide  open. 

Before  many  minutes  had  passed  he  discerned  the  graceful 
and  athletic  figure  of  Miss  Van  Tuyn  coming  towards  him; 
then,  immediately  afterwards,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  blue 
shaven  face  with  an  aquiline  nose  beside  her,  and  realized 
that  the  man  he  had  taken  for  a  jockey  was  Dick  Garstin,  the 
famous  painter. 

As  Braybrooke  knew  everyone,  he,  of  course,  knew  Garstin, 
and  he  wondered  now  why  he  had  not  recognized  his  back 
in  Manchester  Square.  Perhaps  his  mind  had  been  too  en- 
grossed with  Fanny  Cronin  and  the  outrage  at  Claridge's.  He 
only  knew  the  painter  slightly,  just  sufficiently  to  dislike  him 
very  much.  Indeed,  only  the  acknowledged  eminence  of  the 
man  induced  Braybrooke  to  have  anything  to  do  with  him. 
But  one  has  to  know  publicly  acclaimed  geniuses  or  consent 
to  be  thoroughly  out  of  it.  So  Braybrooke  included  Garstin 
in  the  enormous  circle  of  his  acquaintances  and  went  to  his 
private  views. 

But  now  the  recognition  gave  him  pause,  and  he  almost 
wished  he  had  not  taken  so  much  trouble  to  meet  Miss  Van 
Tuyn  and  her  companion.  For  he  could  say  nothing  he  wanted 
to  say  while  Garstin  was  there.  And  the  man  was  so  damnably 
unconventional,  in  fact,  so  downright  rude,  and  so  totally  devoid 
of  all  delicacy,  all  insight  in  social  matters,  that  even  if  he 
saw  that  Braybrooke  wanted  a  quiet  word  with  Miss  Van  Tuyn 
he  would  probably  not  let  him  have  it.  However,  it  was  too 
late  now  to  avoid  the  steadily  advancing  couple.  Miss  Van 
Tuyn  had  seen  Braybrooke,  and  sent  him  a  smile.  In  a  moment 
he  was  face  to  face  with  them,  and  she  stopped  to  greet  him. 

"I  have  been  spending  an  hour  at  the  Wallace  Collection 
with  Mr.  Garstin,"  she  said.  "And  quarrelling  with  him  all 
the  time.    His  views  on  French  art  are  impossible." 

"Ah !  how  are  you  ?"  said  Braybrooke,  addressing  the  painter 
with  almost  exaggerated  cordiality. 

Garstin  nodded  in  his  usual  offhand  way.  He  did  not  dis-» 
like  Braybrooke.  When  Braybrooke  was  there  he  perceived 
him,  having  eyes,  and  having  ears  heard  his  voice.    But  hitherto 


198  DECEMBER  L0\1E  part  threk 

Braybrooke  had  never  succeeded  in  conveying  any  impression 
to  the  mind  of  Garstin.  On  one  occasion  when  Braybrooke 
had  been  discussed  in  Garstin's  presence,  and  Garstin  had  said : 
"Who  is  he?"  and  had  received  a  description  of  Braybrooke 
with  the  additional  information :  "But  he  comes  to  your  pri- 
vate views !  You  have  known  him  for  years !"  he  had  ex- 
pressed his  appreciation  of  Braybrooke's  personahty  and  char- 
acter by  the  exclamation :  "Oh,  to  be  sure !  The  beard  with 
the  gentleman!"  Braybrooke  did  not  know  this,  or  he  would 
certainly  have  disliked  Garstin  even  more  than  he  did  already. 

As  Garstin's  nod  was  not  followed  by  any  other  indication  of 
humanity  Braybrooke  addressed  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  and  told  her 
of  his  call  at  Claridge's. 

"And  as  you  were  not  to  be  found  I  paid  a  visit  to  Miss 
Cronin." 

"She  must  have  bored  you  very  much,"  was  the  charming 
girl's  comment.    "She  has  the  most  confused  mind  I  know." 

What  an  opening  for  Braybrooke !  But  he  could  not  take  it 
because  of  Garstin,  who  stood  by  cruelly  examining  the  stream 
of  humanity  which  flowed  past  them  hypnotized  by  the  shops. 

"May  I — shall  I  be  in  the  way  if  I  turn  back  with  you  for 
a  few  steps?"  he  ventured,  with  the  sort  of  side  glance  at  Gar- 
stin that  a  male  dog  gives  to  another  male  dog  while  walking 
round  and  round  on  a  first  meeting.  "It  is  such  a  pleasure 
to  see  you." 

Here  he  threw  very  definite  admiration  into  the  eyes  which 
he  fixed  on  Miss  Van  Tuyn. 

She  responded  automatically  and  begged  him  to  accompany 
them. 

"Dick  is  leaving  me  at  the  Marble  Arch,"  she  said.  "The 
reason  he  gives  is  that  he  is  going  to  take  a  Turkish  Bath  in 
the  Harrow  Road.  But  that  is  a  lie  that  even  an  American 
girl  brought  up  in  Paris  is  unable  to  swallow.  What  are  you 
really  going  to  do,  Dick?" 

As  she  spoke  she  walked  on,  having  Garstin  on  one  side  of 
her  and  Francis  Braybrooke  on  the  other. 

■"I'm  going  to  have  a  good  sweat  in  the  Harrow  Road." 

Braybrooke  was  disgusted.  It  was  not  that  he  really  minded 
the  word  used  to  indicate  the  process  which  obtains  in  a  Turkish 
Bath.     No;  it  was  Garstin's  blatant  way  of  speaking  it  that 


CHAPTER  VI  DECEMBER  LOVE  199 

offended  his  susceptibilities.  The  man  was  perpetually  defying" 
the  decencies  and  delicacies  which  were  as  perfume  in  Bray- 
brooke's  nostrils. 

"The  doctors  say  that  it  is  an  excellent  thing  to  open  the 
pores,"  said  Braybrooke  discreetly. 

Garstin  cast  a  glance  at  him,  as  if  he  now  saw  him  for  the 
first  time. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  us  you  believe  in  doctors?"  he  said. 

"I  do,  in  some  doctors,"  said  Braybrooke.  "There  are  charla- 
tans in  all  professions  unfortunately." 

"And  some  of  them  are  R.A.'s,"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn.  "By 
the  way,  Dick  is  going  to  paint  me." 

"Really !  How  very  splendid !"  said  Braybrooke,  again  with 
exaggerated  cordiality.     "With  such  a  subject  I'm  sure " 

But  here  he  was  interrupted  by  Garstin,  who  said : 

"She  tells  everyone  I'm  going  to  paint  her  because  she  hopes 
by  reiteration  to  force  me  to  do  it.  But  she  isn't  the  type  that 
interests  me." 

"My  dear  Dick,  I'll  gladly  take  to  morphia  or  drink  if  it  will 
help,"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn.  "I  can  easily  get  the  Cafe  Royal 
expression.  One  has  only  to  sit  with  a  glass  of  something  the 
colour  of  absinthe  in  front  of  one  and  look  sea-sick.  I'm  per- 
fectly certain  that  with  a  week  or  two's  practice  I  could  look 
quite  as  degraded  as  Cora." 

"Cora?"  said  Braybrooke,  alertly,  hearing  a  name  he  did 
not  know. 

"She's  a  horror  who  goes  to  the  Cafe  Royal  and  whom 
Dick  calls  a  free  woman." 

"Free  from  all  the  virtues,  I  suppose!"  said  Braybrooke 
smartly. 

"Good-bye  both  of  you !"  said  Garstin  at  this  juncture. 

"But  we  haven't  got  to  the  Marble  Arch !" 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?    I'm  off." 

He  seemed  to  be  going,  then  stopped,  and  directed  the  two 
pin-points  of  light  at  Miss  Van  Tuyn. 

"I  flatly  refuse  to  make  an  Academy  portrait  of  you,  so 
don't  hope  for  it,"  he  said.  "But  if  you  come  along  to  the 
studio  to-morrow  afternoon  you  may  possibly  find  me  at  work 
on  a  blackmailer." 


200  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

"Dick !"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  in  a  voice  which  startled  Bray- 
brooke. 

"I  don't  promise,"  said  the  painter.  "I  don't  believe  in 
promises,  unless  you  break  'em.     But  it's  just  on  the  cards." 

"You  are  painting  a  blackmailer!"  said  Braybrooke,  with 
an  air  of  earnest  interest.    "How  very  original !" 

"Original!    Why  is  it  original  to  paint  a  blackmailer?" 

"Oh — well,  one  doesn't  often  run  across  them.  They — they 
seem  to  keep  so  much  to  themselves." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you.  If  they  did  some  people  would 
be  a  good  deal  better  oflf  than  they  are  now." 

"Ah,  to  be  sure !  That's  very  true.  I  had  never  looked  on 
it  in  that  light." 

"What  time,  Dick?"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  rather  eagerly. 

"You  might  look  in  about  three." 

"I  will.     That's  a  bargain." 

Garstin  turned  on  his  heel  and  tramped  away  towards 
Berkeley  Street. 

"You  are  going  home  by  Park  Lane?"  said  Braybrooke, 
feeling  greatly  relieved,  but  still  rather  upset. 

"Yes.     But  why  don't  you  take  me  somewhere  to  tea?" 

"Nothing  I  should  like  better.     Where  shall  we  go?" 

"Let's  go  to  the  Ritz.  I  had  meant  to  walk,  but  let  us  take 
a  taxi." 

There  was  certainly  a  change  in  Miss  Van  Tuyn.  Bray- 
brooke noticed  it  at  once.  She  seemed  suddenly  restless,  almost 
excited,  and  as  if  she  were  in  a  hurry. 

"There's  one!"  she  added,  lifting  her  tightly  furled  umbrella. 

The  driver  stopped,  and  in  a  moment  they  were  on  their  way 
to  the  Ritz. 

"You  like  Dick  Garstin?"  said  Braybrooke,  pulling  up  one 
of  the  windows  and  wondering  what  Miss  Cronin  would  say 
if  she  could  see  him  at  this  moment. 

"I  don't  like  him,"  returned  Miss  Van  Tuyn.  "No  one 
could  do  that.  But  I  admire  him,  and  he  interests  me.  He  is 
almost  the  only  man  I  know  who  is  really  indifferent  to  opinion. 
And  he  has  occasional  moments  of  good  nature.  But  I  don't 
wish  him  to  be  soft.  If  he  were  he  would  be  like  everyone 
else." 


CHAPTER  VI  DECEMBER  LOVE  201 

"I  must  confess  I  find  it  very  difficult  to  get  on  with  him." 

"He's  a  wonderful  painter." 

"No  doubt — in  his  way." 

"I  think  it  a  great  mistake  for  any  creative  artist  to  be  won- 
derful in  someone  else's  way,"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn. 

"I  only  meant  that  his  way  is  sometimes  rather  startling. 
And  then  his  subjects !  Drugged  women !  Dram  drinking 
men!    And  now  it  seems  even  blackmailers." 

"A  blackmailer  might  have  a  wonderful  face." 

"Possibly.  But  it  would  be  likely  to  have  a  disgusting  ex- 
pression." 

"It  might.  On  the  other  hand,  I  could  imagine  a  blackmailer 
looking  like  Chaliapine  as  Mephistopheles." 

"I  don't  like  distressing  art,"  said  Braybrooke,  rather  firmly. 
"And  I  think  there  is  too  much  of  it  nowadays." 

"Anything  is  better  than  the  merely  nice.  And  you  have 
far  too  much  of  that  in  England.  Men  like  Dick  Garstin 
are  a  violent  protest  against  that,  and  sometimes  they  go  to 
extremes.  He  has  caught  the  secret  of  evil,  and  when  he  has 
done  with  it  he  may  quite  possibly  catch  the  secret  of  good." 

"And  then,"  said  Braybrooke,  "I  am  sure  he  will  paint 
you." 

It  was  meant  to  be  a  very  charmingly  turned  compliment. 
But  Miss  Van  Tuyn  received  it  rather  doubtfully. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  want  to  wait  quite  so  long  as  that," 
she  murmured.  "Besides — I  think  I  rather  come  in  between. 
At  least,  I  hope  so." 

At  this  point  in  the  conversation  the  cab  stopped  before  the 
Ritz. 

To  Francis  Braybrooke's  intense  astonishment — and  it  might 
almost  be  added  confusion — the  first  person  his  eyes  lit  on  as 
they  walked  towards  the  tea-tables  was  Fanny  Cronin,  com- 
fortably seated  in  an  immense  arm-chair,  devouring  a  muffin 
in  the  company  of  an  old  lady,  whose  determined  face  was 
completely  covered  with  a  criss-cross  of  wrinkles,  and  whose 
withered  hands  were  flashing  with  magnificent  rings.  He  was 
so  taken  aback  that  he  was  guilty  of  a  definite  start,  and  the 
exclamation,  "Miss  Cronin!"  in  a  voice  that  suggested  alarm. 

"Oh,  old  Fanny  with  Mrs.  Clem  Hodson!"  said  Miss  Van 
Tuyn.     "She's  a  school  friend  of  Fanny's  from  Philadelphia. 


202  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

Let  us  go  to  that  table  in  the  far  corner.  I'll  just  speak  to 
them  while  you  order  tea." 

"But  I  thought  Miss  Cronin  never  went  out." 

"She  never  does,  except  with  Mrs.  Clem,  unless  I  want 
her." 

"How  singularly  unfortunate  I  am  to-day!"  thought  Bray- 
brooke,  as  he  bowed  to  Miss  Cronin  in  a  rather  confused 
manner  and  went  to  do  as  he  was  told. 

He  ordered  tea,  then  sat  down  anxiously  to  wait  for  Miss 
Van  Tuyn,  From  his  comer  he  watched  her  colloquy  with 
the  two  school  friends  from  Philadelphia,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
that  something  very  important  was  being  said.  For  Fanny 
Cronin  looked  almost  animated,  and  her  manner  approached 
the  emphatic  as  she  spoke  to  the  standing  girl.  Mrs.  Hodson 
seemed  to  take  very  little  part  in  the  conversation,  but  sat 
looking  very  determined  and  almost  imperious  as  she  listened. 
And  presently  Braybrooke  saw  her  extremely  observant  dark 
eyes — small,  protuberant  and  round  as  buttons — turn  swiftly, 
with  even,  he  thought,  a  darting  movement,  in  his  direction. 

"I  shall  be  driven,  really  driven,  to  make  the  matter  quite 
clear,"  he  thought,  almost  with  desperation.     "Otherwise " 

But  at  this  moment  Miss  Van  Tuyn  came  away  to  him,  and 
their  tea  was  brought  by  a  waiter. 

He  thought  she  cast  a  rather  satirical  look  at  him  as  she 
sat  down,  but  she  only  said : 

"Dear  old  things !  They  are  very  happy  together.  Mrs. 
Clem  is  extraordinarily  proud  of  having  'got  Fanny  out,'  as 
she  calls  it.  A  boy  who  had  successfully  drawn  a  badger 
couldn't  be  more  triumphant.     Now  let's  forget  them !" 

This  was  all  very  well,  and  Braybrooke  asked  for  nothing 
better;  but  he  was  totally  unable  to  forget  the  two  cronies, 
whom  he  saw  in  the  distance  with  their  white  and  chestnut 
heads  alarmingly  close  together,  talking  eagerly,  and,  he  was 
quite  sure,  not  about  the  dear  old  days  in  Philadelphia.  What 
had  they — or  rather  what  had  Miss  Cronin  said  to  Miss  Van 
Tuyn?  He  longed  to  know.  It  really  was  essential  that  he 
should  know.  Yet  he  scarcely  knew  how  to  approach  the  sub- 
ject. It  was  rather  difficult  to  explain  elaborately  to  a  beauti- 
ful girl  that  you  had  not  the  least  wish  to  marry  her.  He 
was  certainly  not  at  his  best  as  he  took  his  first  cup  of  tea 


CHAPTER  VI  DECEMBER  LOVE  203 

and  sought  about  for  an  opening.  Miss  Van  Tuyn  talked 
with  her  usual  assurance,  but  he  fancied  that  her  violet  eyes 
were  full  of  inquiry  when  they  glanced  at  him;  and  he  began 
to  feel  positive  that  the  worst  had  happened,  and  that  Fanny 
Cronin  had  informed  her — no,  misinformed  her — of  what  had 
happened  at  Claridge's.  Now  and  then,  as  he  met  Miss  Van 
Tuyn's  eyes,  he  thought  they  were  searching  his  with  an  un- 
usual consciousness,  as  if  they  expected  something  very  special 
from  him.  Presently,  too,  she  let  the  conversation  languish, 
and  at  last  allowed  it  to  drop.  In  the  silence  that  succeeded 
Braybrooke  was  seized  by  a  terrible  fear  that  perhaps  she 
was  waiting  for  him  to  propose.  If  he  did  propose  she  would 
refuse  him  of  course.  He  had  no  doubt  about  that.  But 
though  to  be  accepted  by  her,  or  indeed  by  anyone,  would 
have  caused  him  acute  distress,  on  the  other  hand  no  one  likes 
to  be  refused. 

He  thought  of  Craven,  Was  it  possible  to  make  any  use 
of  Craven  to  get  him  out  of  his  difficulty?  Dare  he  hint  at 
the  real  reason  of  his  visit  to  Miss  Cronin?  He  had  in- 
tended delicately  to  "sound"  the  chaperon  on  the  subject  of 
matrimony,  to  find  out  if  there  was  anything  on  the  tapis  in 
Paris,  if  Miss  Van  Tuyn  had  any  special  man  friend  there, 
in  short  to  make  sure  of  his  ground  before  deciding  to  walk 
on  it.  But  he  could  hardly  explain  that  to  Miss  Van  Tuyn. 
To  do  so  would  be  almost  brutal,  and  quite  against  all  his 
traditions. 

Again  he  caught  her  eye  in  the  desperate  silence.  Her  gaze 
seemed  to  say  to  him:  "When  are  you  going  to  begin?"  He 
felt  that  he  must  say  something,  even  though  it  were  not  what 
she  was  probably  expecting, 

"I  was  interested,"  he  hurriedly  began,  clasping  his  beard 
and  looking  away  from  his  companion,  "to  hear  the  other  day 
that  a  young  friend  of  mine  had  met  you,  a  very  charming 
and  promising  young  fellow,  who  has  a  great  career  before 
him,  unless  I  am  much  mistaken," 

"Who?"  she  asked;  he  thought  rather  curtly, 

"Alick  Craven  of  the  Foreign  Office.  He  told  me  he  was 
introduced  to  you  at  Adela  Sellingworth's," 

"Oh  yes,  he  was,"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn. 

And  she  said  no  more. 


204  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

"He  was  very  enthusiastic  about  you,"  ventured  Braybrooke, 
wondering  how  to  interpret  her  silence. 

"Really !" 

"Yes.  We  belong  to  the  same  club,  the  St.  James's.  He 
entertained  me  for  more  than  an  hour  with  your  praises." 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  looked  at  him  with  rather  acute  inquiry, 
as  if  she  could  not  make  up  her  mind  about  something  with 
which  he  was  closely  concerned. 

"He  would  like  to  meet  you  again,"  said  Braybrooke,  with 
soft  firmness. 

"But  I  have  met  him  again  two  or  three  times.  He  called 
on  me." 

"And  I  understand  you  were  together  in  a  restaurant  in — 
Soho,  I  think  it  was." 

"Yes,  we  were." 

"What  did  you  think  of  him?"  asked  Braybrooke. 

As  he  put  the  question  he  was  quite  aware  that  he  was 
being  far  from  subtle.  The  vision  in  the  distance — now  eat- 
ing plum  cake,  but  still  very  observant — upset  his  nervous 
system  and  deprived  him  almost  entirely  of  his  usual  savoir 
faire. 

"He  seems  quite  a  nice  sort  of  boy,"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn, 
still  looking  rather  coldly  inquisitive,  as  if  she  were  secretly 
puzzled  but  intended  to  emerge  into  complete  understanding 
before  she  had  done  with  Braybrooke.  "His  Foreign  Office 
manner  is  rather  against  him.  But  perhaps  some  day  he'll 
grow  out  of  that — unless  it  becomes  accentuated." 

"H  you  knew  him  better  I  feel  sure  you  would  like  him. 
He  had  no  reservations  about  you — none  at  all.  But,  then, 
how  could  he  have?" 

"Well,  at  any  rate  I  haven't  got  the  Foreign  Office  manner." 

"No,  indeed !"  said  Braybrooke,  managing  a  laugh  that  just 
indicated  his  appreciation  of  the  remark  as  an  excellent  little 
joke.     "But  it  really  means  nothing," 

"That's  a  pity.  One's  manner  should  always  have  a  mean- 
ing of  some  kind.  Otherwise  it  is  an  absolute  drawback  to 
one's  personality." 

"That  is  perhaps  a  fault  of  the  Englishman.  But  we  must 
remember  that  still  waters  run  deep." 

"Do  you  think  so?    But  if  they  don't  run  at  all?" 


CHAPTER  VI  DECEMBER  LOVE  205 

"How  do  you  mean  ?" 

"There  is  such  a  thing  as  the  village  pond." 

"How  very  trying  she  is  this  afternoon !"  thought  poor 
Braybrooke,  endeavouring  mentally  to  pull  up  his  socks. 

"I  half  promised  Craven  the  other  day,"  he  lied,  resolutely 
ignoring  her  unkind  comparison  of  his  protege  to  the  abomina- 
tion which  is  too  often  veiled  with  duckweed,  "to  contrive  an- 
other meeting  between  you  and  him.  But  I  fear  he  has  bored 
you.  And  in  that  case  perhaps  I  ought  not  to  hold  to  my 
promise.  You  meet  so  many  brilliant  Frenchmen  that  I  dare 
say  our  slower,  but  really  I  sometimes  think  deeper,  mentality 
scarcely  appeals  to  you." 

(At  this  point  he  saw  Fanny  Cronin  leaning  impressively 
towards  Mrs.  Clem  Hodson,  as  if  about  to  impart  some  very 
secret  information  to  that  lady,  who  bent  to  receive  it.) 

"Again  those  deep  waters  I"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  this  time 
with  unmistakable  satire.  "But  perhaps  you  are  right.  I 
remember  a  very  brilliant  American,  who  knew  practically  all 
the  nations  of  Europe,  telling  me  that  in  his  opinion  you  English 
were  the  subtlest — I'm  afraid  he  was  rude  enough  to  say  the 
most  artful — of  the  lot." 

As  she  spoke  the  word  "artful"  her  fine  eyes  smiled  straight 
into  Braybrooke's,  and  she  pinched  her  red  lips  together  very 
expressively. 

"But  I  must  confess,"  she  added,  "that  at  the  moment  we 
were  discussing  diplomats." 

"Artful  was  rather  unkind,"  murmured  Braybrooke.  "I — ^I 
hope  you  don't  think  my  friend  Craven  is  one  of  that  type?" 

"Oh,  I  wasn't  thinking  of  Mr,  Craven." 

The  implication  was  fairly  obvious,  and  Braybrooke  did  not 
miss  it,  although  he  was  not  in  possession  of  his  full  mental 
powers. 

"Perhaps  it  is  our  own  fault,"  he  said.  "But  I  think  we 
English  are  often  misunderstood." 

As  he  spoke  he  shot  a  rather  poignant  glance  in  the  direction 
of  Fanny  Cronin,  who  had  now  finished  her  tea,  and  was 
gathering  her  fur  cloak  about  her  as  if  in  preparation  for 
departure. 

"In  fact,"  he  added,  "I  am  sure  of  it.  This  very  day 
even " 


206  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

He  paused,  wondering  how  to  put  it,  yet  feeling  that  he 
really  must  at  all  costs  make  matters  fairiy  clear  to  his  com- 
panion. 

"Yes  ?"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn  sweetly. 

"To-day,  this  afternoon,  I  think  that  your  dear  Miss  Cronin 
failed  once  or  twice  to  grasp  my  full  meaning  when  I  was 
talking  with  her." 

"Oh,  Fanny!  But  she's  an  old  fool!  Of  course  she's  a 
dear,  and  I'm  very  fond  of  her,  but  she  is  essentially  nebulous. 
And  what  was  it  that  you  think  she  misunderstood?" 

Braybrooke  hesitated.  It  really  was  very  difficult  to  put 
what  he  wanted  to  say  into  words.  Scarcely  ever  before  had 
he  felt  himself  so  incapable  of  dealing  adequately  with  a 
socially  awkward  situation.  If  only  he  knew  what  Miss  Cronin 
had  said  to  Miss  Van  Tuyn  while  he  was  ordering  tea! 

"I  could  scarcely  say  I  know.  I  really  could  not  put  my 
finger  upon  it,"  he  said  at  last.  "There  was  a  general  atmos- 
phere of  confusion,  or  so  it  seemed  to  me.  We — we  discussed 
marriage," 

"I  hope  the  old  dear  didn't  think  you  were  proposing  to 
her?" 

"Good  heavens — oh,  no!  no!  I  don't  quite  know  what  she 
thought."     (He  lowered  his  eyes.)     "But  it  wasn't  that." 

"That's  a  mercy  at  any  rate !" 

Braybrooke  still  kept  his  eyes  on  the  ground,  but  a  dogged 
look  came  into  his  face,  and  he  said,  speaking  more  resolutely: 

"I'm  afraid  I  alarmed  dear  Miss  Cronin." 

"How  perfectly  splendid !"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn. 

"She  is  very  fond  of  you." 

"Much  fonder  of  Bourget !" 

"I  don't  think  so,"  he  said,  with  emphasis.  "She  is  so  de- 
voted to  you  that  quite  inadvertently  I  alarmed  her.  After  all, 
we  were — we  were" — nobly  he  decided  to  take  the  dreadful 
plunge — "we  were  two  elderly  people  talking  together  as 
elderly  people  will,  I  thought  quite  freely  and  frankly,  and  I 
ventured — do  forgive  me — to  hint  that  a  great  many  men  must 
wish  to  marry  you ;  young  men  suited  to  you,  promising  men, 
men  with  big  futures  before  them,  anxious  for  a  brilliant  and 
beautiful  wife." 

"That  was  very  charming  and  solicitous  of  you,"  said  Miss 


CHAPTER  VI  DECEMBER  LOVE  207 

Van  Tuyn,  with  a  smile.     "But  I  don't  know  that  they  do!** 

"Do  what?"  said  Braybrooke,  almost  losing  his  head,  as  he 
saw  the  vision  in  the  distance,  now  cloaked  and  gloved,  rustling 
in  an  evident  preparation  for  something,  which  might  be  de- 
parture or  might  on  the  other  hand  be  approach. 

She  observed  him  with  a  definite  surprise,  which  she  seemed 
desirous  of  showing. 

"I  was  alluding  to  the  promising  men,"  she  said. 

"Which  men?"  asked  Braybrooke,  still  hypnotized  by  the 
vision. 

"The  men  with  big  futures  before  them  who  you  were  kind 
enough  to  tell  Fanny  were  longing  to  marry  me." 

"Oh,  yes !"  (With  a  great  effort  he  pulled  himself  together.) 
"Those  men  to  be  sure !" 

The  vision  was  now  standing  up  and  apparently  disputing 
the  bill,  for  it  was  evidently  talking  at  great  length  to  a  man 
in  livery,  who  had  a  slip  of  paper  in  his  hand,  and  who  oc- 
casionally pointed  to  it  in  a  respectful  manner  and  said  some- 
thing, whereupon  the  vision  made  negative  gestures  and  there 
was  much  tossing  and  shaking  of  heads.  Resolutely  Bray- 
brooke looked  away.  It  was  nothing  to  do  with  him  even  if 
the  Ritz  was  trying  to  make  an  overcharge  for  plum  cake. 

"I  just  hinted  that  there  must  be  men  who — but  you  under- 
stand?" 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  smiled  unembarrassed  assent. 

"And  then  Miss  Cronin" — he  lowered  his  voice — "seemed 
thoroughly  upset.  I  scarcely  know  what  she  thought  I  meant, 
but  whatever  it  was  I  had  not  meant  it.  That  is  certain.  But 
the  fact  is  she  is  so  devoted  to  you  that  the  mere  fact  of  your 
some  day  doing  what  all  lovely  and  charming  women  are  asked 
to  do  and  usually  consent  to  do — but — but  Miss  Cronin  seems 
to — I  think  she  wants  to  say  something  to  you." 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  looked  suddenly  rather  rebellious.  She  did 
not  glance  towards  the  Philadelphia  school  friends,  but  turned 
her  shoulder  towards  them  and  said : 

"Naturally  my  marriage  would  make  a  great  difference  to 
Fanny,  but  I  have  never  known  her  to  worry  about  it." 

"She  is  worrj'ing  now !"  said  poor  Braybrooke,  with  earnest 
conviction.  "But  really  she — I  am  sure  she  wishes  to  speak 
to  you." 


208  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

The  line  showed  itself  in  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  forehead. 

"Will  you  be  kind  and  just  go  and  ask  her  what  she  wants? 
Please  tell  her  that  I  am  not  coming  back  yet  as  I  am  going 
to  call  on  Lady  Sellingworth  when  I  leave  here." 

Braybrooke  got  up,  trying  to  conceal  his  reluctance  to  obey. 
Miss  Cronin,  entrenched  as  it  were  behind  her  old  school 
friend,  and  with  dawnings  of  the  dragon  visible  beneath  her 
feathered  hat,  and  even,  strangely,  mysteriously,  underneath 
her  long  cloak  of  musquash,  was  endeavouring  by  signs  and 
wonders  to  attract  her  Beryl's  attention,  while  Mrs.  Clem 
Hodson  stood  looking  imperious,  and  ready  for  any  action  that 
would  prove  her  solidarity  with  her  old  schoolmate. 

"What  she  wants — and  you  are  going  to  call  on  Lady  Selling- 
worth!"  said  Braybrooke. 

"Yes;  and  to-night  I'm  dining  out." 

"Dining  out  to-night — just  so." 

There  was  no  further  excuse  for  delay,  and  he  went  towards 
the  two  old  ladies,  a  grievous  ambassador.  It  really  had  been 
the  most  unpleasant  afternoon  he  remembered  to  have  spent. 
He  began  to  feel  almost  in  fault,  almost  as  if  he  had  done — 
or  at  the  least  had  contemplated  doing — something  outrageous, 
something  for  which  he  deserved  the  punishment  which  was 
now  being  meted  out  to  him.  As  he  slowly  approached  Miss 
Cronin  he  endeavoured  resolutely  to  bear  himself  like  a  man 
who  had  not  proposed  that  day  for  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  hand. 
But,  preposterously,  Miss  Cronin's  absurd  misconception 
seemed  to  have  power  over  his  conscience,  and  that  again  over 
his  appearance  and  gait.  He  was  fully  aware,  as  he  went 
forward  to  convey  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  message,  that  he  made  a 
very  poor  show  of  it.  In  fact,  he  was  just  then  living  up 
to  Dick's  description  of  him  as  "the  beard  with  the  gentleman." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Braybrooke,"  said  Miss  Cronin  as  he  came  up, 
"so  you  are  here  with  Beryl !" 

"Yes;  so  I  am  here  with  Miss  Van  Tuyn!" 

Miss  Cronin  exchanged  a  glance  with  Mrs.  Clem  Hodson. 

"You  didn't  tell  me  when  you  called  that  you  were  taking 
her  out  to  tea!" 

"No,  I  didn't!"  said  Braybrooke. 

"This  is  my  old  schoolmate,  Mrs,  Clem  Hodson.  Suzanne, 
this  is  Mr.  Braybrooke,  a  friend  of  Beryl's." 


CHAPTER  VI  DECEMBER  LOVE  209 

Mrs.  Clem  Hodson  bowed  from  the  waist,  and  looked  at 
Braybrooke  with  the  expression  of  one  who  knew  a  great  deal 
more  about  him  than  his  own  mother  knew. 

"This  hotel  overcharges,"  she  said  firmly. 

"Really!     I  should  scarcely  have  thought " 

"There  were  two  pieces  of  plum  cake  on  the  bill,  and  we 
only  ate  one." 

"Oh,  I've  just  remembered,"  said  Miss  Cronin,  as  if  ir- 
radiated with  sudden  light. 

"What,  dear?" 

"I  did  have  two  slices.  One  was  before  the  muffin,  while 
we  were  waiting  for  it,  and  the  other  was  after.  And  I  only 
remembered  the  second." 

"In  that  case,  dear,  we've  done  the  waiter  an  injustice  and 
libelled  the  hotel." 

"I  will  make  it  all  right  if  you  will  allow  me,"  said  Bray- 
brooke almost  obsequiously.  "I'm  well  known  here.  I  will 
explain  to  the  manager,  a  most  charming  man." 

He  turned  definitely  to  face  Fanny  Croijin.      ^ 

"Miss  Van  Tuyn  asked  me  to  tell  you  what  she  wants." 

"Indeed!     Does  she  want  something?" 

"No.    I  mean  she  told  me  to  ask  you  what  you  want." 

Miss  Cronin  looked  at  Mrs.  Clem  Hodson,  hesitated,  and 
then  made  a  very  definite  rabbit's  mouth. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  want  anything,  thank  you,  Mr.  Bray- 
brooke.    But  if  Beryl  is  going — she  is  not  going?" 

"I  really  don't  know  exactly." 

"She  hasn't  finished  her  tea,  perhaps?" 

"I  don't  know  for  certain.  But  she  asked  me  to  tell  you 
she  wasn't  coming  back  yet" — the  two  old  ladies  exchanged 
glances  which  Braybrooke  longed  to  contradict — "as  she  is 
going  to  call  on  Lady  Sellingworth  presently." 

"Ah!"  said  Mrs.  Clem  Hodson,  gazing  steadily  at  Fanny 
Cronin. 

"In  Berkeley  Square !"  added  Braybrooke  emphatically.  "And 
to-night  she  is  dining  out." 

"Did  she  say  where?"  asked  Miss  Cronin,  slightly  moving 
her  ears. 

"No;  she  didn't." 


210  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

"Thank  you,"  said  Miss  Cronin.  "Good-bye,  Mr.  Bray- 
brooke." 

She  held  out  her  hand  like  one  making  a  large  and  difficult 
concession  to  her  own  Christianity.  Mrs,  Clem  Hodson  bowed 
again  from  the  waist  and  also  made  a  concession.  She  mut- 
tered, "Very  glad  to  have  met  you !"  and  then  cleared  her 
throat,  while  the  criss-cross  of  wrinkles  moved  all  over  her 
face. 

"I  will  make  it  all  right  with  the  manager,"  said  Braybrooke, 
with  over-anxious  earnestness,  and  feeling  now  quite  definitely 
that  he  must  really  have  proposed  to  Miss  Cronin  for  Miss 
Van  Tuyn's  hand  that  afternoon,  and  that  he  must  have  just 
lied  about  the  disposal  of  her  time  until  she  had  to  dress  for 
dinner. 

"The  manager?"  said  Miss  Cronin. 

"What  manager?"  said  Mrs.  Clem  Hodson. 

"About  the  plum  cake!    Surely  you  remember?" 

"Oh — the  plum  cake !"  said  Mrs.  Hodson,  looking  steadily 
at  Fanny  Cronin.  "Thank  you  very  much  indeed !  Very 
good  of  you!" 

"Thank  you,"  said  Miss  Cronin,  with  a  sudden  piteous  look. 
"I  did  eat  two  slices.  Come,  Suzanne!  Good-bye  again,  Mr. 
Braybrooke." 

They  turned  to  go  out.  As  Braybrooke  watched  the  musquash 
slowly  vanishing  he  knew  in  his  bones  that,  when  he  did 
not  become  engaged  to  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  Fanny  Cronin,  till 
the  day  of  her  death,  would  feel  positive  that  he  had  pro- 
posed to  her  that  afternoon  and  had  been  rejected.  And  he 
muttered  in  his  beard : 

"Damn  these  red-headed  old  women!  I  will  not  make  it  all 
right  with  the  manager  about  the  plum  cake!" 

It  was  a  poor  revenge,  but  the  only  one  he  could  think  of 
at  the  moment. 

"Is  anything  the  matter?"  asked  Miss  Van  Tuyn  when  he 
rejoined  her.     "Has  old  Fanny  been  tiresome?" 

"Oh,  no — no!  But  old  Fan — I  beg  your  pardon,  I  mean 
Miss  Cronin — Miss  Cronin  has  a  peculiar — ^but  she  is  very 
charming.  I  gave  her  your  message,  and  she  quite  understood. 
We  were  talking  about  plum  cake.  That  is  why  I  was  so 
long." 


CHAPTER  VI  DECEMBER  LOVE  211 

"I  see!  A  fascinating  subject  like  that  must  be  difficult 
to  get  away  from." 

"Yes — very !    What  a  delightful  woman  Mrs.  Hodson  is." 

"I  think  her  extremely  wearisome.  Her  nature  is  as  wrinkled 
as  her  face.  And  now  I  must  be  on  my  way  to  Adela  Selling- 
worth's. 

"May  I  walk  with  you  as  far  as  her  door?" 

"Of 'course." 

When  they  were  out  in  Piccadilly  he  said : 

"And  now  what  about  my  promise  to  Mr.  Craven?" 

"I  shall  be  delighted  to  meet  him  again,"  said  Miss  Van 
Tuyn  in  a  careless  voice.  "And  I  would  not  have  you  break 
a  promise  on  my  account.     Such  a  sacred  thing!" 

"But  if  he  bores  you " 

"He  doesn't  bore  me  more  than  many  young  men  do." 

"Then  I  will  let  you  know.    We  might  have  a  theatre  party." 

"Anything  you  like.  And  why  not  ask  Adela  Sellingworth 
to  make  a  fourth?" 

This  suggestion  was  not  at  all  to  Braybrooke's  liking,  but 
he  scarcely  knew  what  to  say  in  answer  to  it.  Really,  it  seemed 
as  if  this  afternoon  was  to  end  as  it  had  begun — in  a 
contretemps. 

"I  am  so  fond  of  her,"  continued  Miss  Van  Tuyn.  "And 
I'm  sure  she  would  enjoy  it." 

"But  she  so  seldom  goes  out." 

"All  the  more  reason  to  try  to  persuade  her  out  of  her  shell. 
I  believe  she  will  come  if  you  tell  her  I  and  Mr.  Craven  make 
up  the  rest  of  the  party.  We  all  got  on  so  well  together  in 
Soho." 

"I  will  certainly  ask  her,"  said  Braybrooke. 

What  else  could  he  say? 

At  the  corner  of  Berkeley  Square  Miss  Van  Tuyn  stopped 
and  rather  resolutely  bade  him  good-bye. 

When  Braybrooke  was  alone  he  felt  almost  tired  out.  If 
he  had  been  an  Italian  he  would  probably  have  believed  that 
someone  had  looked  on  him  that  day  with  the  evil  eye.  He 
feared  that  he  had  been  almost  maladroit.  His  social  self- 
confidence  was  severely  shaken.  And  yet  he  had  only  meant 
well;  he  had  only  been  trying  to  do  what  he  considered  his 
duty.     It  had  all  begun  with  Miss  Cronin's  preposterous  mis- 


212  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  three 

take.  That  had  thoroughly  upset  him,  and  from  that  moment 
he  had  not  been  in  possession  of  his  normal  means.  And  now 
he  was  let  in  for  a  party  combining  Adela  Sellingworth  with 
Miss  Van  Tuyn  and  Craven.  It  was  singularly  unfortunate. 
But  probably  Lady  Sellingworth  would  refuse  the  invitation 
he  now  had  to  send  her.  She  really  went  out  very  seldom.  He 
could  only  hope  for  a  refusal.  That,  too,  was  tragic.  He 
could  not  remember  ever  before  having  actively  wished  that 
an  invitation  of  his  should  be  declined. 

He  was  so  reduced  in  self-confidence  and  spirits  that  he 
turned  into  the  St.  James's  Club,  sank  down  alone  in  a  remote 
corner,  and  called  for  a  dry  Martini,  although  he  knew  quite 
well  that  it  would  set  up  fermentation. 


PART  FOUR 


CHAPTER  I 

LADY  SELLINGWORTH  was  "not  at  home"  when  Miss 
Van  Tuyn  called,  though  no  doubt  she  was  in  the  house, 
and  the  latter  left  her  card,  on  which  she  wrote  in  pencil,  "So 
sorry  not  to  find  you.  Do  let  us  meet  again  soon.  I  may 
not  be  in  London  much  longer."  When  she  wrote  the  last 
sentence  she  was  really  thinking  of  Paris  with  a  certain  ir- 
ritation of  desire.  In  Paris  she  always  had  a  good,  even  a  splen- 
did, time.  London  was  treating  her  badly.  Perhaps  it  was 
hardly  worth  while  to  stay  on.  She  had  many  adorers  in 
Paris,  and  no  elderly  women  there  ever  got  in  her  way.  French- 
men never  ran  after  elderly  women.  She  could  not  conceive 
of  any  young  Frenchman  doing  what  Craven  had  done  if 
oflFered  the  choice  between  a  girl  of  twenty-two  and  a  woman 
of  sixty.  Englishmen  really  were  incomprehensible.  Was  it 
worth  while  to  bother  about  them?  Probably  not.  But  she 
was  by  nature  combative  as  well  as  vain,  and  Craven's  be- 
haviour had  certainly  given  him  a  greater  value  in  her  estima- 
tion. If  he  had  done  the  quite  ordinary  thing,  and  fallen 
in  love  with  her  at  once,  she  might  have  been  pleased  and 
yet  have  thought  very  little  of  him.  He  would  then  have  been 
in  a  class  with  many  others.  Now  he  was  decidedly  in  a  class 
by  himself.  If  he  loved  he  would  not  be  an  ordinary  lover. 
She  was  angry  with  him.  She  intended  some  day  to  punish 
him.  But  he  puzzled  her,  and  very  definitely  now  he  attracted 
her. 

No ;  really  she  would  not  go  back  to  Paris  of  the  open  arms 
and  the  comprehensible  behaviour  without  coming  to  con- 
clusions with  Craven.  To  do  so  would  be  to  retreat  practically 
beaten  from  the  field,  and  she  had  never  yet  acknowledged  a 
defeat. 

213 


214  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

Besides,  she  had  something  in  prospect,  something  that  for 
the  moment,  at  any  rate,  would  hold  her  in  London  even  without 
the  attraction,  half  repellent,  of  Craven.  Evidently  Dick 
Garstin,  for  whatever  reason,  had  done  something,  or  was 
about  to  do  something,  for  her.  Always  he  managed  to  be 
irritating.  It  was  just  like  him  to  spend  two  hours  alone  with 
her  without  saying  one  word  about  the  living  bronze,  and  then 
to  rouse  her  curiosity  when  it  was  impossible  that  it  should 
be  gratified  owing  to  the  presence  of  Braybrooke.  Garstin 
could  never  do  anything  in  a  pleasant  and  comfortable  way. 
He  must  always,  even  in  kindness,  be  semimalicious.  There 
was  at  times  something  almost  Satanic  in  his  ingenious  avoid- 
ance of  the  common  humanities.  But  it  seemed  that  he  was 
about  to  comply  with  her  expressed  whim.  He  had  surely 
spoken  to  the  Cafe  Royal  man,  and  had  perhaps  already  re- 
ceived from  him  a  promise  to  visit  the  studio. 

She  had  not  seen  the  stranger  again.  He  had  not  been  at 
the  Cafe  Royal  on  the  night  when  she  had  dined  there  alone. 
But  Garstin  must  have  seen  him  again,  unless,  indeed,  Garstin 
was  being  absolutely  disgusting,  was  condescending  to  a  cheap 
and   vulgar  hoax. 

That  was  just  possible.  But  somehow  she  believed  in  Garstin 
this  time.  She  felt  almost  sure  that  he  had  done  what  she 
wished,  and  that  to-morrow  afternoon  in  Glebe  Place  she 
would  meet  the  man  to  whom  she  had  oflFered  the  shilling. 

That  would  be  distinctly  amusing.  She  felt  on  the  edge 
of  a  rather  uncommon  adventure. 

On  the  following  day,  very  soon  after  three,  she  pushed 
the  bell  outside  Garstin's  studio  door  in  Glebe  Place.  It  was 
not  answered  immediately,  and,  feeling  impatient,  she  rang 
again  without  waiting  long.  Garstin  opened  the  door,  and 
smiled  rather  maliciously  on  seeing  her. 

"What  a  hurry  you're  in!"  he  said.  "Come  along  in,  my 
girl." 

As  he  shut  the  heavy  door  behind  her  she  turned  in  the  lobby 
and  said: 

"Well,  Dick?" 

"I'm  working  in  the  upstairs  studio,"  he  returned  blandly. 

"What  are  you  at  work  on  ?" 

"Go  up  and  you'll  see  for  yourself." 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  215 

She  hastened  through  the  studio  on  the  ground  floor,  which 
was  hung  with  small  landscapes,  and  sketches  in  charcoal,  and 
audacious  caricatures  of  various  well-known  people.  At  the 
end  of  it  was  a  short  and  wide  staircase.  She  mounted  it 
swiftly,  and  came  into  another  large  studio  built  out  at  the 
back  of  the  building.  Here  Garstin  worked  on  his  portraits, 
and  here  she  expected  to  come  face  to  face  with  the  living 
bronze.  As  she  drew  near  to  the  entrance  of  the  studio  she  felt 
positive  that  he  was  waiting  for  her.  But  when  she  reached 
it  and  looked  quickly  and  expectantly  round  she  saw  at  once 
that  the  great  room  was  empty.  Only  the  few  portraits  on 
easels  and  on  the  pale  walls  looked  at  her  with  the  vivid  eyes 
which  Garstin  knew  how  to  endow  with  an  almost  abnormal 
life. 

Evidently  Garstin  had  stopped  below  for  a  moment  in  the 
ground  floor  studio,  but  she  now  heard  his  heavy  tramp  on 
the  stairs  behind  her  and  turned  almost  angrily. 

"Dick,  is  this  intended  for  a  joke?" 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'this'  ?" 

"You  know!  Have  you  brought  me  here  under  false  pre- 
tences?   You  know  quite  well  why  I  came." 

"Why  don't  you  take  off  your  hat?" 

But  for  once  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  vanity  was  not  on  the  alert; 
for  once  she  did  not  care  whether  Garstin  admired  her  head 
or  not. 

"I  shall  not  take  oflf  my  hat,"  she  said  brusquely.  "I  don't 
intend  to  stay  unless  there  is  the  reason  which  I  expected  and 
which  induced  me  to  come  here.  Have  you  seen  that  re- 
markable-looking man  again  or  not?" 

"I  have,"  said  Garstin  with  a  mischievous  smile. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  looked  slightly  mollified,  but  still  uncertain. 

"Did  you  speak  to  him?"  she  asked. 

"I  did." 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"I  told  him  to  come  along  to  the  studio." 

"You  did!     And ?" 

"Why  don't  you  take  oflF  your  hat  ?" 

"Because  it  suits  me  particularly  well.  Now  tell  me  at  once, 
don't  be  malicious  and  tiresome — are  you  expecting  him?" 

"I  couldn't  say  that." 


216  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

"You  are  not  expecting  him!" 

"My  good  girl,  we  expect  from  those  we  rely  on.  What 
do  I  know  about  this  fellow's  character?  I  told  him  who  I 
was,  and  what  I  wanted  with  him,  and  that  I  wanted  it  with 
him  at  three  this  afternoon.  He's  got  the  address.  But  whether 
we  have  any  reason  to  expect  him  is  more  than  I  can  say." 

She  looked  quickly  at  the  watch  on  her  wrist. 

"It  is  past  three.     I  was  late." 

After  an  instant  of  silence  she  sat  down  on  an  old-fashioned 
sofa  covered  with  dull  green  and  red  silk.  Just  behind  it 
on  an  easel  stood  a  half-finished  portrait  of  the  Cora  woman, 
staring  with  hungry  eyes  over  an  empty  tumbler. 

"Give  me  a  cigarette,  Dick,"  she  said.  "Did  he  say  he  would 
come  ?" 

The  painter  went  over  to  an  old  Spanish  cabinet  and 
rummaged  for  a  box  of  cigarettes,  with  his  horsey-looking 
back  turned  towards  her. 

"Did  he?"  she  repeated.  "Can't  you  tell  me  what  happened 
when  you  spoke  to  him?  Why  force  me  to  cross-examine 
you  in  this  indelicate  way?" 

"Here  you  are!"  said  Garstin,  turning  round  with  a  box  of 
cigarettes. 

"Thank  you." 

"I  gave  him  my  name." 

"He  knew  it,  of  course?" 

"He  didn't  say  so.  There  was  no  celebrity-start  of  pleasure. 
I  had  to  explain  that  I  occasionally  painted  portraits  and  that 
I  wished  to  make  a  study  of  his  damned  remarkable  head. 
Upon  that  he  handed  me  his  card.    Here  it  is." 

And  Garstin  drew  out  of  a  side  pocket  a  visiting-card,  which 
he  gave  to  Miss  Van  Tuyn. 

She  read :   'Nicolas  Arabian." 

There  was  no  address  in  the  corner. 

"What  a  curious  name!" 

She  sat  gazing  at  the  card  and  smoking  her  cigarette. 

"Do  you  know  where  he  is  staying?" 

"No." 

"Did  you  speak  English  to  him?" 

"I  did." 

"And  he  spoke  good  English?" 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  217 

"Yes,  with  a  foreign  accent  of  some  kind." 

At  this  moment  an  electric  bell  sounded  below. 

"There  he  is !"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  quickly  giving  back 
the  card  to  Garstin,  who  dropped  it  into  his  pocket.  "Do  go 
down  quickly  and  let  him  in,  or  he  may  think  it  is  all  a 
hoax  and  go  away." 

The  painter  stood  looking  at  her  keenly,  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets  and  his  strong,  thin  legs  rather  wide  apart. 

"Well,  at  any  rate  you're  damned  unconventional !"  he  said. 
"At  this  moment  you  even  look  unconventional.  What  are 
your  eyes  shining  about?" 

"Dick— do  go !" 

She  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm.  There  was  a  strong  grip  in 
her  fingers. 

"This  is  a  little  adventure.  And  I  love  an  adventure,"  she 
said. 

"I  only  hope  it  ends  badly,"  said  Garstin,  as  he  turned  to- 
wards the  staircase.  "Re's  more  patient  than  you.  He  hasn't 
rung  twice." 

"I  believe  he's  gone  away,"  she  said,  almost  angrily  as  he 
disappeared  down  the  stairs. 

She  got  up.  There  was  a  grand  piano  in  the  studio  at  the 
far  end.  She  moved  as  if  she  were  going  towards  it,  then 
returned  and  went  to  the  head  of  the  stairs.  She  heard  the 
front  door  open  and  listened.  Dick  Garstin's  big  bass  voice 
said  in  an  offhand  tone: 

"Halloh!  thought  you  weren't  coming!  Glad  to  see  you. 
Come  along  in!" 

"I  know  I  am  late,"  said  a  warm  voice — the  voice  of  a  man. 
"For  me  this  place  has  been  rather  difficult  to  find.  I  am 
not  well  acquainted  with  the  painters'  quarter  of  London." 

A  door  banged  heavily.  Then  Miss  Van  Tuyn  heard  steps, 
and   again   the  warm   voice   saying: 

"I  see  you  do  caricatures.    Or  are  these  not  by  you?" 

"Every  one  of  them !"  said  Garstin.  "Except  that.  That's 
a  copy  I  made  of  one  of  Leonardo's  horrors.  It's  fine.  It's 
a  thing  to  live  with." 

"Leonardo — ah,  yes !'  said  the  voice. 

"I  wonder  if  that  man  has  ever  heard  of  Leonardo?"  was 
Miss  Van  Tuyn's  thought  just  then. 


218  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

"Up  those  stairs  right  ahead  of  you,"  said  Garstin. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  quickly  drew  back  and  sat  down  again  on 
the  sofa.  An  instant  after  she  had  done  so  the  Hving  bronze 
appeared  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  his  big  brown  eyes 
rested  on  her.  No  expression  either  of  surprise,  or  of  any- 
thing else,  came  into  his  face  as  he  saw  her.  And  she  realized 
immediately  that  whatever  else  this  man  was  he  was  supremely 
self-possessed.  Yet  he  had  turned  away  from  her  shilling. 
Why  was  that?  In  that  moment  she  began  to  wonder  about 
him.  He  stood  still,  waiting  for  Garstin  to  join  him.  As 
he  did  this  he  looked  formal  but  amazingly  handsome,  though 
there  were  some  lines  about  his  eyes  which  she  had  not  noticed 
in  the  Cafe  Royal.  He  was  dressed  in  a  dark  town  suit  and 
wore  a  big  double-breasted  overcoat.  He  was  holding  a  black 
bowler  hat,  a  pair  of  thick  white  gloves  and  a  silver-topped 
stick.  As  Garstin  joined  him,  Miss  Van  Tuyn  slowly  got  up 
from  her  sofa. 

"A  friend  of  mine — Beryl  Van  Tuyn,"  said  Garstin.  "Come 
to  have  a  look  round  at  what  I'm  up  to."  (He  glanced  at 
Miss  Van  Tuyn.)  "Mr.  Arabian,"  he  added.  "Take  off  your 
coat,  won't  you?    Throw  it  anywhere." 

Arabian  bowed  to  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  still  looking  formal  and 
as  if  she  were  a  total  stranger  whom  he  had  never  set  eyes 
on  before.  She  bowed  to  him.  As  she  did  so  she  thought 
that  he  was  a  little  older  than  she  had  supposed.  He  was 
certainly  over  thirty.  She  wondered  about  his  nationality  and 
suspected  that  very  mixed  blood  ran  in  his  veins.  Somehow, 
in  spite  of  his  quite  extraordinary  good  looks,  she  felt  almost 
certain  that  he  was  not  a  pure  type  of  any  nation.  In  her 
mind  she  dubbed  him  on  the  spot  "a  marvellous  mongrel." 

He  obeyed  Garstin's  suggestion,  took  off  his  coat,  and  laid  it 
with  his  hat,  gloves  and  stick  on  a  chair  close  to  the  staircase. 
Then  for  the  first  time  he  spoke  to  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  who  was 
still  standing. 

"I  always  love  a  studio,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "and  when 
Mr,  Dick  Garstin" — he  pronounced  the  name  with  careful  clear- 
ness— "was  good  enough  to  invite  me  to  his  I  was  very  thank- 
ful.   His  pictures  are  famous." 

"You've  been  getting  me  up,"  said  Garstin  bluntly.  "Read- 
ing 'Who's  Who'!" 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  219 

Arabian  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"I  beg  your  pardon?" 

"Don't  be  absurd  and  put  on  false  modesty,  Dick,"  said  Miss 
Van  Tuyn.     "As  if  you  weren't  known  to  everyone!" 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  spoken  in  Arabian's  hearing 
since  the  episode  in  Shaftesbury  Avenue,  and,  as  she  uttered 
her  first  words,  she  thought  she  detected  a  faint  and  fleeting 
look  of  surprise — it  was  like  a  mental  start  made  visible — slip 
over  his  face,  like  a  ray  of  pale  light  slipping  over  a  surface. 
Immediately  afterwards  a  keen  expression  came  into  his  eyes, 
and  he  looked  rather  more  self-possessed  than  before,  rather 
harder  even. 

"Everyone,  of  course,  knows  your  name,  Mr.  Dick  Garstin, 
as  mademoiselle  says." 

"Right  you  are!"  said  Garstin  gruffly.     "Glad  to  hear  it!" 

He  now  directed  the  two  pin-points  of  light  to  the  new  visitor, 
stared  at  him  with  almost  cruel  severity,  and  yet  with  a 
curiously  inward  look,  frowning  and  lifting  his  long  pursed 
lips,  till  the  upper  lip  was  pressed  against  the  bottom  of  his 
beaked  nose. 

"Are  you  going  to  allow  me  to  paint  you  ?"  he  said.  "That's 
what  I'm  after.  I  should  like  to  do  a  head  and  bust  of  you. 
I  could  make  something  of  it — something — yes  !" 

He  still  stared  with  concentrated  attention,  and  suddenly 
a  faint  whistle  came  from  his  lips.  Without  removing  his 
eyes  from  Arabian  he  whistled  several  times  a  little  tune  of 
five  notes,  like  the  song  of  a  thrush.  Arabian  meanwhile  re- 
turned his  gaze  rather  doubtfully,  slightly  smiling. 

"Ever  been  painted?"  said  Garstin  at  last. 

"No,  never.  Once  I  have  sat  to  a  sculptor  for  the  figure. 
But  that  was  when  I  was  very  young.  I  was  something  of 
an  athlete  as  a  boy." 

"I  should  say  so,"  said  Garstin.  "Well,  what  do  you  think, 
eh?" 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  had  sat  down  on  the  sofa  again,  and  was 
lighting  another  cigarette.  She  looked  at  the  two  men  with 
interest.  She  now  knew  that  what  Garstin  had  done  he  had 
really  done  for  himself,  not  for  her.  As  he  had  said,  he 
did  not  paint  for  the  pleasure  of  others,  but  only  for  reasons 
of  his  own.     Apparently  he  would  never  gratify  her  vanity. 


220  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

But  he  gratified  something  else  in  her,  her  genuine  love  of 
talent  and  the  ruthlessness  of  talent.  There  was  really  some- 
thing of  the  great  man  in  Garstin,  and  she  appreciated  it.  She 
admired  him  more  than  she  liked  him.  Even  in  her  frequent 
irritation  against  him  she  knew  what  he  genuinely  was.  At 
this  moment  something  in  her  was  sharply  disappointed.  But 
something  else  in  her  was  curiously  satisfied. 

In  reply  to  Garstin's  question  Arabian  asked  another  ques- 
tion. 

"You  wish  to  make  a  portrait  of  me?" 

"I  dc^in  oils." 

"Will  it  take  long?" 

"I  couldn't  say.  I  might  be  a  week  over  it,  or  less,  or 
more.    I  shall  want  you  every  day." 

"And  when  it  is  done?"  said  Arabian.  "What  happens 
to  it?" 

"If  it's  up  to  the  mark — my  mark — I  shall  want  to  exhibit 
it." 

Arabian  said  nothing  for  a  moment.  He  seemed  to  be 
thinking  rather  seriously,  and  presently  his  large  eyes  turned 
towards  Miss  Van  Tuyn  for  an  instant,  almost,  she  thought, 
as  if  they  wished  to  consult  her,  to  read  in  her  eyes  some- 
thing which  might  help  him  to  a  decision.  She  felt  that  the 
man  was  flattered  by  Garstin's  request,  but  she  felt  also  that 
something — she  did  not  know  what — held  him  back  from  grant- 
ing it.    And  again  she  wondered  about  him. 

What  was  he?  She  could  not  divine.  She  looked  at  him 
and  felt  that  she  was  looking  at  a  book  not  one  of  whose 
pages  she  could  read.  And  yet  she  thought  he  had  what  is 
sometimes  called  an  "open"  face.  There  was  nothing  sly  in 
the  expression  of  his  eyes.  They  met  other  eyes  steadily, 
sometimes  with  a  sort  of  frank  audacity,  sometimes  with — 
apparently — an  almost  pleading  wistf  ulness. 

Finally,  as  if  coming  to  a  conclusion  as  to  what  he  con- 
sidered it  wise  to  do  for  the  moment,  Arabian  said : 

"Excuse  me,  but  are  these  pictures  which  I  see  portraits 
painted  by  you  ?" 

"Every  one  of  them,"  said  Garstin,  rather  roughly  and 
impatiently. 

"Will  you  allow  me  to  look  at  them  ?" 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  221 

"They're  there  to  be  looked  at." 

Again  Arabian  glanced  at  Miss  Van  Tuyn.  She  got  up 
from  the  sofa  quickly. 

"I  will  show  Mr.  Arabian  the  pictures,"  she  said. 

She  had  noticed  the  cloud  lowering  on  Garstin's  face  and 
knew  that  he  was  irritated  by  Arabian's  hesitation.  As  Garstin 
had  once  said  to  her  he  could  be  "sensitive,"  although  his 
manners  were  often  rough,  and  his  face  was  what  is  usually 
called  a  "hard"  face.  And  he  was  quite  unaccustomed  to 
meet  with  any  resistance,  even  with  any  hesitation,  when  he 
was  disposed  to  paint  anyone,  man  or  woman.  Besides,  the 
fact  of  Arabian's  arrival  at  the  studio  had  naturally  led  Garstin 
to  expect  compliance  with  his  wish  already  expressed  at  the 
Cafe  Royal.  He  was  now  obviously  in  a  surly  temper,  and 
Miss  Van  Tuyn  knew  from  experience  that  when  resisted  he 
was  quite  capable  of  an  explosion.  How,  she  wondered,  would 
Arabian  face  an  outburst  from  Garstin?  She  could  not  tell. 
But  she  thought  it  wise  if  possible  to  avoid  anything  dis- 
agreeable.   So  she  came  forward  smiling. 

"That  will  be  very  kind,"  said  Arabian,  in  his  soft  and 
warm  voice,  and  with  his  marked  but  charming  foreign  accent. 
"I  am  not  expert  in  these  matters." 

Garstin  pushed  up  his  lips  in  a  sort  of  sneer.  Miss  Van 
Tuyn  sent  him  a  look,  and  for  once  he  heeded  a  wish  of  hers. 

"I'll  be  back  in  a  minute,"  he  said.  "Have  a  good  stare 
at  my  stuff,  and  if  you  don't  like  it — why,  damn  it,  you're  free 
to  say  so." 

Miss  Van  Tuyn's  look  had  sent  him  away  down  the  stairs 
to  the  ground  floor  studio.  Arabian  had  not  missed  her  mes- 
sage, but  he  was  apparently  quite  impassive,  and  did  not 
show  that  he  had  noticed  the  painter's  ill  humour. 

For  the  first  time  Miss  Van  Tuyn  was  quite  alone  with  the 
living  bronze. 

"Do  you  know  much  about  pictures?"  she  asked  him. 

"Not  very  much,"  he  answered,  with  a  long,  soft  look  at  her. 
"I  have  only  one  way  to  judge  them." 

"And  what  way  is  that?" 

"If  they  are  portraits,  I  mean." 

"Yes?" 


222  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

"I  judge  them  by  their  humanity.  One  does  not  want  to 
be  made  worse  than  one  is  in  a  picture." 

"I'm  afraid  you  won't  hke  Dick  Garstin's  work,"  she  said 
decisively. 

She  was  rather  disappointed.  Had  this  audaciously  hand- 
some man  a  cult  for  the  pretty-pretty? 

"Let  us  see !"   he  replied,   smiling. 

He  looked  round  the  big  studio.  As  he  did  so  she  noticed 
that  he  had  an  extraordinarily  quick  and  all-seeing  glance,  and 
realized  that  in  some  way,  in  some  direction,  he  must  be 
clever,  even  exceptionally  clever.  There  were  some  eight  or 
ten  portraits  in  the  studio,  a  few  finished,  others  half  finished 
or  only  just  begun.  Arabian  went  first  to  stand  before  the 
finished  portrait  of  a  girl  of  about  eighteen,  whose  face  was 
already  plainly  marked — blurred,  not  sharpened — ^by  vice.  Her 
youth  seemed  obscured  by  a  faint  fog  of  vice — as  if  she  had 
projected  it,  and  was  slightly  withdrawn  behind  it.  Arabian 
looked  at  her  in  silence.  Miss  Van  Tuyn  watched  him,  stand- 
ing back,  not  quite  level  with  him.  And  she  saw  on  his  face 
an  expression  that  suggested  to  her  a  man  contemplating  some- 
thing he  was  very  much  at  home  with. 

"That  is  a  bad  girl!"  was  his  only  comment,  as  he  moved 
on  to  the  next  picture. 

This  was  also  the  portrait  of  a  woman,  but  of  a  woman 
well  on  in  life,  an  elderly  and  battered  siren  of  the  streets, 
wrecked  by  men  and  by  drink.  Only  the  head  and  bust  were 
shown,  a  withered  head  crowning  a  bust  which  had  sunken  in. 
There  was  an  old  pink  hat  set  awry  on  the  head.  From  beneath 
it  escaped  coarse  wisps  of  almost  orange-coloured  hair.  The 
dull,  small  eyes  were  deep-set  under  brows  which  looked 
feverish.  A  livid  spot  of  red  glowed  almost  like  a  torch-end 
on  each  high  cheek-bone.     The  mouth  had  fallen  open. 

Arabian  examined  this  tragedy,  which  was  one  of  Garstin's 
finest  bits  of  work  in  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  estimation,  with  care- 
ful and  close  attention,  but  without  showing  the  faintest 
symptom  of  either  pity  or  disgust. 

"In  my  opinion  that  is  well  painted,"  was  his  comment. 
"They  do  get  to  be  like  that.  And  then  they  starve.  And 
that  is  because  they  have  no  brains." 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  223 

"Garstin  swears  that  woman  must  once  have  been  very  beau- 
tiful," said  Miss  Van  Tuyn. 

"Oh — quite  possible,"  said  Arabian. 

"Well,  I  can't  conceive  it." 

He  turned  and  gave  her  a  long,  steady  look,  full  of  softness 
and  ardour. 

"It  would  be  very  sad  if  you  could,"  he  said.  "Excuse  me, 
but  are  you  American?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  Americans  never  get  like  that.  They  are  too  prac- 
tical." 

"And  not  romantic — do  you  mean?"  she  said,  not  without 
irony. 

"They  can  be  romantic,  but  they  save  themselves  from  dis- 
aster with  their  practical  sense.     I  hope  I  put  it  right." 

She  smiled  at  him. 

"You  speak  very  good  English.  What  do  you  think  of 
this?" 

"But  I  have  seen  her !"  he  said. 

They  had  come  to  the  easel  on  which  was  the  half-finished 
portrait  of  Cora,  staring  across  her  empty  glass. 

"She  goes  to  the  Cafe  Royal." 

He  looked  again  at  Miss  Van  Tuyn. 

"Do  you  ever  go  there?"  he  asked  gravely. 

"No,  never,"  she  said  with  calm  simplicity,  returning  his 
gaze. 

"Well  she — that  woman— sits  there  alone  just  like  that.  She 
has  a  purpose.  She  is  waiting  for  someone  to  come  in  who 
will  come  some  night.  And  she  knows  that,  and  will  wait, 
like  a  dog  before  a  hole  which  contains  something  he  intends 
to  kill.  This  Mr.  Dick  Garstin  is  very  clever.  He  is  more 
than  a  painter ;  he  is  an  understander." 

"Ah!"  she  said,  intimately  pleased  by  this  remark.  "You 
do  appreciate  him!  Garstin  is  great  because  he  paints  not 
merely  for  the  eye  that  looks  for  a  sort  of  painted  photo- 
graph, but  for  the  eye  that  demands  a  summing  up  of  char- 
acter." 

Arabian  looked  sideways  at  her. 

"What  is  that — of  character,  mademoiselle?" 


224  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

"A  summing  up!  That  is  a  presentation  of  the  sum  total 
of  the  character." 

"Oh,  yes." 

He  looked  again  at  Cora. 

"One  knows  what  she  is  by  that,"  he  said. 

Then,  standing  still,  he  looked  rapidly  all  round  the  studio, 
glancing  first  at  one  portrait  then  at  another,  with  eyes  which, 
despite  their  lustrous  softness,  seemed  to  make  a  sort  of  prey 
of  whatever  they  lighted  on. 

"But  they  are  all  women  and  all  of  a  certain  world !"  he  said, 
almost  suspiciously.    "Why  is  that?" 

"Garstin  is  passing  through  a  phase  just  now.  He  paints 
from  the  Cafe  Royal." 

"Oh!" 

He  paused,  and  his  brown  face  took  on  a  look  of  rather  nard 
meditation. 

"Does  he  never  paint  what  they  call  decent  people?"  he 
inquired.  "One  may  occasionally  spend  an  hour  at  the  Cafe 
Royal — especially  if  one  is  not  English — without  belonging  to 
the  has-fonds.  I  do  not  know  whether  Mr.  Dick  Garstin 
understands  that." 

"Of  course  he  does,"  she  said,  instantly  grasping  the  mean- 
ing of  his  hesitation.  "But  there  is  one  portrait — of  a  man 
— which  I  don't  think  you  have  looked  at." 

"Where?" 

"On  that  big  easel  with  its  back  to  us.  H  you  want  a  decent 
person" — she  spoke  with  a  slightly  ironical  intonation — "go  and 
see  what  Garstin  can  do  with  decency." 

"I  will." 

And  he  walked  over  to  the  side  of  the  room  opposite  to  the 
grand  piano,  and  went  to  stand  in  front  of  the  easel  she  had 
indicated.  She  stood  where  she  was  and  watched  him.  For 
two  or  three  minutes  he  looked  at  the  picture  in  silence,  and 
she  thought  his  expression  had  become  slightly  hostile.  His 
audacious  and  rather  thick  lips  were  set  together  firmly,  almost 
too  firmly.  His  splendid  figure,  supple,  athletic  and  harmonious, 
looked  almost  rigid.  She  wondered  what  he  was  feeling, 
whether  he  disliked  the  portrait  of  a  judge  of  the  Criminal 
Court  at  which  he  was  looking.    Finally  he  said : 

"I  think  Mr.  Dick  Garstin  is  a  humorist.     Do  not  you?" 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  225 

"But— why?" 

"To  put  this  gentleman  in  the  midst  of  all  the  law  breakers." 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  crossed  the  room  and  joined  him  in  front 
of  the  picture,  which  showed  the  judge  seated  in  his  wig  and 
robes. 

"And  that  is  not  all,"  added  Arabian.  "This  man's  busi- 
ness is  to  judge  others,  naughty  people  who  do  God  knows 
what,  and,  it  seems,  have  to  be  punished  sometimes.    Is  it  not  ?" 

"Yes,  to  be  sure." 

"But  Mr.  Dick  Garstin  when  painting  him  is  saying  to 
himself  all  the  time,  'And  he  is  naughty,  too!  And  who  is 
going  to  put  on  wig  and  red  clothes  and  tell  him  he,  too, 
deserves  a  few  months  of  prison?'  Now  is  not  that  true, 
mademoiselle?  Is  not  that  man  bad  underneath  the  judge's 
skin?  And  has  not  Mr.  Dick  Garstin  found  this  out,  and  does 
not  he  use  all  his  cleverness  to  show  it?" 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  looked  at  Arabian  with  a  stronger  interest 
than  any  she  had  shown  yet.  It  was  quite  true.  Garstin 
had  a  peculiar  faculty  for  getting  at  the  lower  part  of  a  char- 
acter and  for  bringing  it  to  the  surface  in  his  portraits.  Per- 
haps in  the  exercise  of  this  faculty  he  showed  his  ingrained 
cynicism,  sometimes  even  his  malice.  Arabian  had,  it  seemed, 
immediately  discovered  the  painter's  predominant  quality  as  a 
psychologist  of  the  brush. 

"You  are  quite  right,"  she  said.  "One  feels  that  someone 
ought  to  judge  that  judge." 

"That  is  more  than  a  portrait  of  one  man,"  said  Arabian. 
"It  is  a  portrait  of  the  world's  hypocrisy." 

In  saying  this  his  usually  soft  voice  suddenly  took  on 
an  almost  biting  tone. 

"The  question  is,"  he  added,  "whether  one  wishes  to  be 
painted  as  bad  when  perhaps  one  is  not  so  bad.  Many  people,  I 
think,  might  fear  to  be  painted  by  this  very  famous  Mr.  Dick 
Garstin." 

"Would  you  be  afraid  to  be  painted  by  him  ?"  she  said. 

He  cast  a  sharp  side  glance  at  her  with  eyes  which  looked 
suddenly  vigilant. 

"I  did  not  say  that." 

"He'll  be  furious  if  you  refuse." 

"I  see  he  is  accustomed  generally  to  have  what  he  wishes.'* 


226  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

"Yes.  And  he  would  make  a  magnificent  thing  of  you.  I  am 
certain  of  that." 

She  saw  vanity  looking  out  of  his  eyes,  and  her  vanity  felt 
suddenly  almost  strangely  at  home  with  it. 

"It  is  a  compliment,  I  know,  that  he  should  wish  to  paint 
me,"  said  Arabian.     "But  why  does  he?" 

The  question  sounded  to  Miss  Van  Tuyn  almost  suspicious. 

"He  admires  your  appearance,"  she  answered.  "He  thinks 
you  a  very  striking  type." 

"Ah!    A  type!    But  what  of?" 

"He  didn't  tell  me,"  she  answered. 

Arabian  was  silent  for  a  moment;  then  he  said: 

"Does  Mr.  Dick  Garstin  get  high  prices  for  his  portraits? 
Are  they  worth  a  great  deal?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  a  sudden  light  touch  of  disdain,  which 
she  could  not  forego.  "The  smallest  sketch  of  a  head  painted 
by  him  will  fetch  a  lot  of  money." 

"Ah— indeed !" 

"Let  him  paint  you !     There  he  is — coming  back." 

As  Garstin  reappeared  Arabian  turned  to  him  with  a  smile 
that  looked  cordial  and  yet  that  seemed  somehow  wanting  in 
real  geniality. 

"I  have  seen  them  all." 

"Have  you  ?    Well,  let's  have  a  drink." 

He  went  over  to  the  Spanish  cabinet  and  brought  out  of' 
it  a  flagon  of  old  English  glass  ware,  soda-water,  and  three  tall 
tulip-shaped  glasses  with  long  stems. 

"Come  on.  Let's  sit  down,"  he  said,  setting  them  down 
on  a  table.  "I'll  get  the  cigars.  Squat  here.  Beryl.  Here's  a 
chair  for  you,  Arabian.    Help  yourselves." 

He  moved  off  and  returned  with  a  box  of  his  deadly  cigars. 
Arabian  took  one  without  hesitation,  and  accepted  a  stiff 
whisky  and  soda.  While  he  had  been  downstairs  Garstin  had 
apparently  recovered  his  good  humour,  or  had  deliberately 
made  up  his  mind  to  take  a  certain  line  with  his  guest  from  the 
Cafe  Royal.  He  said  nothing  about  his  pictures,  made  no 
further  allusion  to  his  wish  to  paint  Arabian's  portrait,  but 
flung  himself  down,  lit  a  cigar,  and  began  to  drink  and  smoke 
and  talk,  very  much  as  if  he  were  in  the  bar  of  an  inn  with 
a  lot  of  good  fellows.    When  he  chose  Garstin  could  be  human 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  227 

and  genial,  at  times  even  rowdy.  He  was  genial  enough  now, 
but  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  who  was  very  sharp  about  almost  every- 
thing connected  with  people,  thought  of  a  patient's  first  visit 
to  a  famous  specialist,  and  of  the  quarter  of  an  hour  so  often 
apparently  wasted  by  the  great  physician  as  he  talks  about 
topics  unconnected  with  symptoms  to  his  anxious  visitor.  She 
was  certain  that  Garstin  was  determined  to  paint  Arabian 
whether  the  latter  was  willing  to  be  painted  or  not,  and  she  was 
equally  certain  that  already  Garstin  had  begun  to  work  on 
his  sitter,  not  with  brushes  but  with  the  mind.  For  his  own 
benefit,  and  incidentally  for  hers,  Garstin  was  carelessly,  but 
cleverly,  trying  to  find  out  things  about  Arabian,  not  things 
about  his  life,  but  things  about  his  education,  and  his  mind 
and  his  temperament.  He  did  not  ask  him  vulgar  questions.  He 
just  talked,  and  watched,  and  occasionally  listened  in  the  midst 
of  the  cigar  smoke,  and  often  with  the  whisky  at  his  lips. 

She  had  refused  to  take  any  whisky,  but  smoked  cigarette 
after  cigarette  quickly,  nervously  almost.  She  was  enjoying 
herself  immensely,  but  she  felt  unusually  excited,  mentally  rest- 
less, almost  mentally  agitated.  Her  usual  coolness  of  mind 
had  been  changed  into  a  sort  of  glow  by  Garstin  and  the 
living  bronze.  She  always  liked  being  alone  with  men,  hearing 
men  talk  among  themselves  or  talking  with  them  free  from 
the  presence  of  women.  But  to-day  she  was  exceptionally  stim- 
ulated for  she  was  exceptionally  curious.  There  was  some- 
thing in  Arabian  which  vaguely  troubled  her,  and  which  also 
enticed  her  almost  against  her  will.  And  now  she  was  follow- 
ing along  a  track,  pioneered  by  a  clever  and  cunning  leader. 

Garstin  talked  about  London,  which  Arabian  apparently 
knew  fairly  well,  though  he  said  he  had  never  lived  long  in 
London ;  then  about  Paris,  which  Arabian  also  knew  and  spoke 
of  like  a  man  who  visited  it  now  and  then  for  purposes  of 
pleasure.  Then  Garstin  spoke  of  the  art  he  followed,  of  the 
old  Italian  painters  and  of  the  Galleries  of  Italy.  Arabian 
became  very  quiet.  His  attitude  and  bearing  were  those  of 
one  almost  respectfully  listening  to  an  expert  holding  forth 
on  a  subject  he  had  made  his  own.  Now  and  then  he  said 
something  non-committal.  There  was  no  evidence  that  he 
had   any  knowledge   of    Italian   pictures,   that   he   could   dis- 


228  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

tinguish  between  a  Giovanni  Bellini  and  a  Raphael,  tell  a 
Luini  from  a  Titian. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  wondered  again  whether  he  had  ever  heard 
of  Leonardo. 

Garstin  mentioned  some  Paris  painters  of  the  past,  but  of 
more  recent  times  than  those  of  the  grand  old  Italians,  spoke 
of  Courbet,  of  Manet,  of  Renoir,  Guilaumin,  Sisley,  the  Bar- 
bizon  school,  Cezanne  and  his  followers.  Finally  he  came  to 
the  greatest  of  the  French  Impressionist  painters,  to  Pissaro, 
for  whom,  as  Miss  Van  Tuyn  knew,  he  had  an  admiration  which 
amounted  almost  to  a  cult. 

"He's  a  glorious  fellow,  isn't  he?"  he  said  in  his  loud  bass 
voice  to  Arabian.     "You  know  his  'Pont  Neuf,'  of  course?" 

He  did  not  wait  for  an  answer,  but  drove  on  with  immense 
energy,  puffing  away  at  his  cigar  and  turning  his  small,  keen 
eyes  swiftly  from  Arabian  to  Miss  Van  Tuyn  and  back  again. 
The  talk,  which  was  now  a  monologue,  fed  by  frequent  draughts 
of  the  excellent  whisky,  included  a  dissertation  on  Pissaro 's  oil 
paintings,  his  water-colours,  his  etchings  and  lithographs,  his 
pupils,  Cezanne,  Van  Gogh  and  Gauguin,  his  friendships,  his 
troubles,  and  finally  a  paean  on  his  desperate  love  of  work, 
which  was  evidently  shared  by  the  speaker. 

"Work— it's  the  thing  in  life!"  roared  Garstin.  "It's  the' 
great  consolation  for  all  the  damnableness  of  the  human  ex- 
istence.   Work  first  and  the  love  of  women  second !" 

"Thank  you  very  much  for  your  chivalry,  Dick,"  said  Miss 
Van  Tuyn,  sending  one  of  her  most  charming  blue  glances  to 
the  living  bronze,  who  returned  it,  almost  eagerly,  she  thought. 

"And  the  love  of  women  betrays,"  continued  Garstin.  "But 
work  never  lets  you  down." 

He  flung  out  his  right  arm  and  quoted  sonorously  from 
Pissaro:  "Le  travail  est  un  merveilleux  regulateur  de  sante 
morale  et  physique.  La  souffrance  n'a  de  prise  que  sur  les 
paresseux.  I  paint  portraits  because  doing  it  helps  me  to 
live!"  he  almost  shouted.  "Another  cigar!"  He  turned  to 
Arabian. 

"Thank  you.     They  are  beauties  and  not  too  strong." 

"You've  got  a  damned  strong  constitution  if  you  can  say 
that.    You  have  been  like  me ;  you  have  fortified  it  by  work." 

"I  fear  not,"  he  said  with  a  smile.    "I  have  been  a  flaneur, 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  229 

an  idler.  It  has  been  my  great  misfortune  to  have  enough 
money  for  what  I  want  without  working." 

"Like  poor  me!"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  feeling  suddenly 
relieved. 

"I  pity  you  both!"  said  Garstin. 

And  he  branched  away  to  literature,  to  music,  to  sculpture. 
Lowering  his  big  voice  suddenly  he  spoke  of  the  bronzes  of 
the  Naples  Museum,  half  shutting  his  eyes  till  they  were 
two  narrow  slits,  and  looking  intently  at  Arabian. 

"You  have  the  throat  of  one  of  those  bronzes,"  he  said 
bluntly,  "and  should  never  wear  that  cursed  abomination,  a 
starched  linen  collar." 

"What  is  one  to  do  in  London?"  murmured  Arabian,  sud- 
denly stretching  his  brown  throat  and  lifting  his  strong  chin. 

"Show  it  something  worth  looking  at,"  said  Garstin. 

And  he  returned  to  the  subject  of  women,  and  spoke  on 
it  so  freely  and  fully  that  Miss  Van  Tuyn  presently  pulled 
him  up.  Rather  to  her  surprise  he  showed  unusual  meekness 
under  her  interruption. 

"All  right,  my  girl!  I've  done!  I've  done!  But  I  always 
forget  you're  not  a  young  man." 

"Ma  foil"  said  Arabian,  almost  under  his  breath. 

Garstin  looked  across  at  him. 

"She's  a  Tartar.     She'd  keep  the  devil  himself  in  order." 

"He  deserves  restraint  far  less  than  you  do,"  said  Miss 
Van  Tuyn. 

"She  won't  leave  me  alone,"  continued  Garstin,  flinging  one 
leg  over  the  arm  of  his  easy  chair.  "She  even  attacks  me 
about  my  painting,  says  I  only  paint  the  rats  of  the  sewers." 

"I  never  said  that,"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn.  "I  said  you 
were  a  painter  of  the  underworld,  and  so  you  are." 

"But  Mr.  Dick  Garstin  also  paints  judges,  mademoiselle," 
said  Arabian. 

"Oh,  lord!  Drop  the  Mister!  I'm  Dick  Garstin  tout  court 
or  I'm  nothing.  Now,  Arabian,  you  know  the  reason,  part 
of  the  reason,  why  I  want  to  stick  you  on  canvas." 

"You  mean  because " 

He  seemed  to  hesitate,  and  touched  his  little  Guardsman's 
moustache. 


230  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

"Because  you're  a  jolly  fine  subject  and  nothing  to  do  with 
the  darlings  that  live  in  the  sewers." 

"Ah !    Thank  you !"  said  Arabian.    "But  you  paint  judges." 

"I  only  put  that  red- faced  old  ruffian  here  as  a  joke.  Directly 
I  set  eyes  on  him  I  knew  he  ought  to  have  been  in  quod 
himself!  Come  now,  what  do  you  say?  Look  here!  I'll 
make  a  bargain  with  you.  I'll  give  you  the  thing  when  it's 
done." 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  looked  at  Garstin  in  amazement,  and  missed 
the  sudden  gleam  of  light  that  came  into  Arabian's  eyes.  But 
Garstin  did  not  miss  it  and  repeated : 

"I'll  give  you  the  thing!  Now  what  do  you  say?  Is  it  a 
bargain  ?" 

"But  how  can  I  accept?"  said  Arabian,  quickly  adding: 
"And  how  can  I  refuse?    Mr. " 

"Drop  the  Mister,  I  say." 

"Dick  Garstin  then." 

"That's  better." 

"I  wish  to  tell  you  that  I  am  not  a  connoisseur  of  art.  On 
the  other  hand,  please,  I  have  an  eye  for  what  is  fine.  Made- 
moiselle, I  hope,  will  say  it  is  so?" 

He  looked  at  Miss  Van  Tuyn. 

"Mr.  Arabian  made  some  remarkably  cute  remarks  about 
the  portraits,   Dick,"  she  said  in  reply  to  the  glance. 

"I  care  for  a  fine  painting  so  much  that  really  I  do  not 
know  how  to  refuse  the  temptation  you  oflfer  me — Dick 
Garstin." 

Garstin  poured  himself  out  another  whisky. 

"I'll  start  on  it  to-morrow,"  he  said,  staring  hard  at  the 
man  who  had  now  become  definitely  his  subject. 

Soon  afterwards  Arabian  got  up  and  said  he  must  go.  As 
he  said  this  he  looked  pleadingly  at  Miss  Van  Tuyn.  But  she 
sat  still  in  her  chair,  a  cigarette  between  her  lips.  He  said 
"good-bye"  to  her  formally.  Garstin  went  down  with  Arabian 
to  let  him  out,  and  was  away  for  three  or  four  minutes.  From 
her  chair  Miss  Van  Tuyn  heard  a  murmur  of  voices,  then 
presently  a  loud  bass:  "To-morrow  morning  at  eleven  sharp," 
then  the  bang  of  a  door.  A  minute  later  Garstin  bounded 
up  the  stairs  heavily,  yet  with  a  strong  agility. 

"I've  got  him,  my  girl!     He's  afraid  of  it  like  the  devil, 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  231 

but  I've  got  him.  I  hit  on  the  only  way.  I  found  the  only 
bait  which  my  fish  would  take.     Now  for  another  cigar." 

He  seized  the  box. 

"Did  you  see  his  eyes  when  I  said  I'd  give  him  the  picture?" 

"No;  I  was  looking  at  you." 

"Then  you  missed  revelation.  I  had  diagnosed  him  all 
right." 

"Tell  me  your  diagnosis." 

"I  told  it  you  long  ago.  That  fellow  is  a  being  of  the 
underworld." 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  slightly  reddened. 

"I  wonder!"  she  said.  "I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  you're 
right,  Dick." 

"What  did  you  gather  when  I  put  him  through  his  paces 
just  now?"  he  asked,  sending  out  clouds  of  strong-smelling 
smoke. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!  Not  very  much.  He  seems  to  have 
been  about,  to  have  plenty  of  money." 

"And  no  education.  He  doesn't  know  a  thing  about  pictures, 
painters.  Just  at  first  I  thought  he  might  have  been  a  model. 
Not  a  bit  of  it!  Books  mean  nothing  to  him.  What  that 
chap  has  studied  is  the  pornographic  book  of  life,  my  girl.  He 
has  no  imagination.  His  feeling  runs  straight  in  the  direction 
of  sensuality.  He's  as  ignorant  and  as  clever  as  they're  made. 
He's  never  done  a  stroke  of  honest  work  in  his  life,  and 
despises  all  those  who  are  fools  enough  to  toil,  me  among 
them.  He  is  as  acquisitive  as  a  monkey  and  a  magpie  rolled 
into  one.  His  constitution  is  made  of  iron,  and  I  dare  say 
his  nerves  are  made  of  steel.  He's  a  rare  one,  I  tell  you,  and 
I'll  make  a  rare  picture  of  him." 

"I  don't  know  whether  you  are  right,  Dick." 

Garstin  seemed  quite  unaffected  by  her  doubt  of  his  power 
to  read  character.  Perhaps  at  that  moment  he  was  coolly 
reading  hers,  and  laughing  to  himself  about  women.  But  if 
so,  he  did  not  show  it.    And  she  said  in  a  moment: 

"You  are  really  going  to  give  him  the  portrait?" 

"Yes,  when  I've  exhibited  it.  Not  before,  of  course.  The 
gentleman  isn't  going  to  have  it  all  his  own  way." 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  looked  rather  thoughtful,  even  preoccupied. 
Almost  immediately  afterwards  she  got  up  to  go. 


232  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

"Coming  to-morrow?"  he  said. 

"What — to  see  you  paint?" 

"Coming?" 

"You  really  mean  that  I  may?" 

"I  do.     You'll  help  me." 

She  looked  rather  startled,  and  then,  immediately,  keenly 
curious. 

"I  don't  see  how." 

"No  reason  you  should !  Now  off  with  you !  I've  got  things 
to  do." 

"Then  good-bye." 

As  she  was  going  away  she  stopped  for  a  moment  before 
the  portrait  of  the  judge. 

"He  found  out  why  you  painted  that  portrait." 

"Arabian?"  said  Garstin. 

"Yes.    And  he  said  something  about  it  that  wasn't  stupid." 

"What  was  that?" 

"He  said  it  was  more  than  the  portrait  of  one  man,  that  it 
was  a  portrait  of  the  world's  hypocrisy." 

"Damned  good !"  said  Garstin  with  a  sonorous  chuckle. 
"And  his  portrait  will  be  more  than  the  portrait  of  one  man." 

"Yes?"  she  said,  looking  eagerly  at  him. 

But  he  would  not  say  anything  more,  and  she  went  away 
full  of  deep  curiosity,  but  thankful  that  she  had  decided  to 
stay  on  in  London. 


CHAPTER  II 

TWO  days  after  the  visit  of  Arabian  to  Dick  Garstin's 
studio  Lady  Sellingworth  received  a  note  from  Francis 
Braybrooke,  who  invited  her  to  dine  with  him  at  the  Carlton 
on  the  following  evening,  and  to  visit  a  theatre  afterwards. 
"Our  young  friends,  Beryl  Van  Tuyn  and  Alick  Craven" 
would  be  of  the  party,  he  hoped.  Lady  Sellingworth  had 
no  engagement.  She  seldom  left  home  in  the  evening.  Yet 
she  hesitated  to  accept  this  invitation.  She  had  not  seen  Miss 
Van  Tuyn  since  the  evening  in  Soho,  nor  Braybrooke  since 
his  visit  to  Berkeley  Square  to  tell  her  about  his  trip  to  Paris, 
but  she  had  seen  Craven  three  times,  and  each  time  alone. 
Their  intimacy  had  deepened  with  a  rapidity  which  now  almost 
startled  her  as  she  thought  of  it,  holding  Braybrooke's  un- 
answered note.  Already  it  seemed  very  strange  to  recall  the 
time  when  she  had  not  known  Craven,  when  she  had  never  seen 
him,  had  never  even  heard  of  him.  Sixty  years  she  had  lived 
without  this  young  man  in  her  life.  She  could  hardly  be- 
lieve that.  And  now,  with  this  call  to  meet  him  in  public, 
before  very  watchful  eyes,  and  in  the  company  of  two  people 
who  she  was  sure  were  in  different  ways  hostile  to  her  in- 
timacy with  him,  she  felt  the  cold  touch  of  fear.  And  she 
doubted  what  course  to  take. 

She  wondered  why  Braybrooke  had  asked  her  and  suspected 
a  purpose.  In  a  moment  she  believed  that  she  had  guessed 
what  that  purpose  was.  Braybrooke  was  meditating  a  stroke 
against  her.  She  had  felt  that  in  her  drawing-room  with 
him.  For  some  reason — ^perhaps  only  that  of  a  social  busy- 
body— he  wanted  to  bring  about  a  match  between  Craven  and 
Miss  Van  Tuyn.  He  had  said  with  emphasis  that  Craven 
had  almost  raved  about  the  lovely  American.  Lady  Selling- 
worth  did  not  believe  that  assertion.  She  felt  sure  that  when 
he  had  made  it  Braybrooke  had  told  her  a  lie.  Craven  had 
amply  proved  to  her  his  indifference  towards  Miss  Van  Tuyn. 

233 


234j  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

Braybrooke's  lie  surely  indicated  a  desire  to  detach  his  old 
friend's  attention  from  the  young  man  he  had  introduced  into 
her  life,  and  must  mean  that  he  was  a  little  afraid  of  her 
influence.  It  had  been  practically  a  suggestion  to  her  that 
youth  triumphant  must  win  in  any  battle  with  old  age;  yet 
it  had  implied  a  doubt,  if  not  an  actual  uneasiness.  And  now 
came  this  invitation  to  meet  "our  young  friends."  Lady  Selling- 
worth  thought  of  the  contrast  between  herself  and  Beryl  Van 
Tuyn.  She  had  not  worried  about  it  in  the  Bella  Napoli  when 
she  and  the  young  friends  were  together.  But  now — things 
were  different  now.  She  had,  or  believed  she  had,  something 
to  lose.  And  she  did  not  want  to  lose  it.  It  would  be  horrible 
to  lose  it! 

Perhaps  Braybrooke  wished  Craven  to  see  her  with  Beryl 
Van  Tuyn  in  the  glare  of  electric  light.  Perhaps  that  was  the 
reason  of  this  unexpected  invitation.  If  so,  it  was  an  almost 
diabolically   cruel   reason. 

She  resolved  to  refuse  the  invitation.  But  again  a  voice 
through  the  telephone  caused  her  to  change  her  mind.  And 
again  it  was  Craven's  voice.  It  asked  her  whether  she  had 
'•eceived  an  invitation  from  Braybrooke,  and  on  her  replying 
that  she  had,  it  begged  her  to  accept  it  if  she  had  not  done 
so  already.  And  she  yielded.  If  Craven  wished  her  to  go 
she  would  go.  Why  should  she  be  afraid?  In  her  ugliness 
surely  she  triumphed  as  no  beauty  could  ever  triumph.  She 
told  herself  that  and  for  a  moment  felt  reassured,  more  than 
reassured,  safe  and  happy.  For  the  inner  thing,  the  dweller 
in  the  temple,  felt  that  it,  and  it  alone,  was  exercising  intimate 
power.  But  then  a  look  into  the  glass  terrified  her.  And  she 
sat  down  and  wrote  two  notes.  One  was  to  Francis  Bray- 
brooke accepting  his  invitation;  the  other  was  to  a  man  with 
a  Greek  name  and  was  addressed  to  a  house  in  South  Moulton 
Street. 

Francis  Braybrooke  felt  rather  uneasy  about  his  party  when 
the  day  came,  but  he  was  a  man  of  the  world,  and  resolved 
to  "put  a  good  face  on  it."  No  more  social  catastrophes  for 
him !  Another  fiasco  would,  he  was  certain,  destroy  his  nerve 
and  render  him  quite  unfit  to  retain  his  place  in  society.  He 
pulled  himself  together,  using  his  will  to  the  uttermost,  and 
dressed  for  dinner  with  a  still  determination  to  carry  things 


CHAPTER  II  DECEMBER  LOVE  235 

through  with  a  high  hand.  The  worst  of  it  was  that  he  had  an 
uneasy  feeling — quite  uncalled  for,  he  was  sure  of  that — of 
being  a  false  friend.  For  Lady  Sellingworth  was  his  friend. 
He  had  known  her  for  many  years,  whereas  Craven  and  Beryl 
Van  Tuyn  were  comparatively  new-comers  in  his  life.  And 
yet  he  was  engaged  in  something  not  quite  unlike  a  conspiracy 
against  this  old  friend.  Craven  had  said  she  was  lonely.  Per- 
haps that  was  true.  Women  who  lived  by  themselves  generally 
felt  lonelier  than  men  in  a  like  situation.  Craven,  perhaps, 
was  bringing  a  little  solace  into  this  lonely  life.  And  now 
he,  Braybrooke,  was  endeavouring  to  make  an  end  of  that 
solace.  For  he  quite  understood  that,  women  being  as  they  are, 
a  strong  friendship  between  Adela  Sellingworth  and  Craven 
was  quite  incompatible  with  a  love  affair  between  Craven  and 
Beryl  Van  Tuyn.  He  hoped  he  was  not  a  traitor  as  he 
carefully  arranged  his  rather  large  tie.  But  anything  was 
better  than  a  tragedy.  And  with  women  of  Adela  Selling- 
worth's  reputed  temperament  one  never  knew  quite  what  might 
happen.  Her  emergence,  after  ten  years,  into  Shaftesbury 
Avenue  and  Soho  had  severely  shaken  Braybrooke's  faith  in 
her  sobriety,  fostered  though  it  had  been,  created  even,  by 
her  ten  years  of  distinguished  retirement.  Damped-down  fires 
sometimes  blaze  forth  unexpectedly  and  rage  with  fury.  He 
hoped  he  was  doing  the  right  thing.  Anyhow,  it  was  not 
his  fault  that  Lady  Sellingworth  was  to  be  of  his  party  to- 
night.    Miss  Van  Tuyn  was  responsible  for  that. 

He  rang  the  bell,  which  was  answered  by  his  valet. 

"Please  fetch  the  theatre  ticket,  Walter.  It  is  in  the  drawer 
of  my  writing-table  in  the  library.  A  box  for  the  Shaftesbury 
Theatre." 

"Yes,  sir." 

Walter  went  out  and  returned  in  a  moment  with  the  ticket. 
He  was  an  old  servant  and  occasionally  exchanged  ideas  with 
his  master.  As  he  gave  Braybrooke  the  envelope  containing 
the  ticket,  he  said : 

"A  very  remarkable  play,  sir.     I  think  you  will  enjoy  it." 

"What!    Have  you  seen  it?" 

"Yes,  sir.  The  Great  Lover.  My  wife  would  go.  She  liked 
the  name,  sir.  About  a  singer,  sir,  who  kept  on  loving  like  a 
young  man  when  the  age  for  it  was  really  what  one  might  call 


236  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

over,  sir.     But  it  seems  that  for  some  it  never  is  over,  sir." 

"Good  heavens,  have  I  done  the  wrong  thing  again  ?"  thought 
Braybrooke,  who  had  chosen  the  play  almost  at  random,  with- 
out knowing  much  about  it  except  that  an  actor  unknown  to 
him,  one  Moscovitch,  was  said  to  be  very  fine  in  it. 

"How  old  is  the  singer  ?"  he  inquired  anxiously. 

"I  couldn't  say  for  certain,  sir.  But  somewhere  in  the  forties, 
I  should  think,  and  nearing  fifty.  He  loses  his  voice,  sir, 
but  still  answers  to  young  women  at  the  telephone." 

"Dear!     Dear!" 

"But  as  my  wife  says,  sir,  with  a  man  it's  not  such  a  great 
matter.    But  with  a  woman — well !" 

He  pursed  his  narrow  lips  and  half -shut  his  small  grey  eyes. 

"Ah!"  said  Braybrooke,  feeling  extremely  uncomfortable. 
"Good  night,  Walter.    You  needn't  sit  up." 

"Thank  you,  sir.     Good  night,  sir." 

"Really  the  evil  eye  must  have  looked  at  me !"  thought  Bray- 
brooke, as  he  went  downstairs.    "I'm  thoroughly  out  of  luck." 

He  arrived  in  good  time  at  the  Carlton  and  waited  for  his 
guests  in  the  Palm  Court.  Craven  was  the  first  to  arrive. 
He  looked  cheerful  and  eager  as  he  came  in,  and,  Braybrooke 
thought,  very  young  and  handsome.  He  had  got  away  from 
the  F.  O.  that  afternoon,  he  said,  and  had  been  down  at  Beacons- 
field  playing  golf.  Apparently  his  game  had  been  unusually 
good  and  that  fact  had  put  him  into  spirits. 

"There's  nothing  like  being  in  form  with  one's  drive  for 
bucking  one  up !"  he  acknowledged. 

And  he  broke  out  into  an  almost  boyish  paean  in  praise  of 
golf. 

"But  I  always  thought  you  preferred  lawn  tennis!"  said 
Braybrooke. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know !  Yes,  I'm  as  keen  as  ever  on  tennis,  but 
anyone  can  play  golf.  Mrs.  Sandhurst  was  out  to-day  playing 
a  splendid  game,  and  she's  well  over  sixty.  That's  the  best 
of  golf.  People  can  play,  and  play  decently,  too,  up  to  almost 
any  age." 

"Well,  but  my  dear  boy  you're  not  in  the  sixties  yet!" 

"No.    But  I  wasn't  thinking  about  myself." 

Braybrooke  looked  at  him  rather  narrowly,  and  wondered 
of  whom  he  had  been  thinking.     But  he  said  nothing  more, 


CHAPTER  II  DECEMBER  LOVE  237 

for  at  this  moment  Miss  Van  Tuyn  appeared  in  the  doorway 
at  the  end  of  the  court.  Braybrooke  went  to  meet  her,  but 
Craven  stayed  where  he  was. 

"Is  Adela  SeUingworth  coming?'  she  asked  instantly,  as 
Braybrooke  took  her  hand. 

"She  promised  to  come.    I'm  expecting  her." 

He  made  a  movement,  but  she  stood  still,  though  they  were 
close  to  the  doorway. 

"And  what  are  we  going  to  see  ?" 

"A  play  called  The  Great  Lover.     Here  is  Alick  Craven." 

At  this  moment  Craven  joined  them.  Seeing  Miss  Van 
Tuyn  standing  still  with  a  certain  obstinacy  he  came  up  and 
took  her  hand. 

"Nice  to  meet  you  again,"  he  said. 

Braybrooke  thought  of  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  remark  about  the 
Foreign  Office  manner,  and  hoped  Craven  was  going  to  be 
at  his  best  that  evening.  It  seemed  to  him  that  there  was  a 
certain  dryness  in  the  young  people's  greeting.  Miss  Van 
Tuyn  was  looking  lovely,  and  almost  alarmingly  youthful  and 
self-possessed,  in  a  white  dress.  Craven,  fresh  from  his  suc- 
cesses at  golf,  looked  full  of  the  open-air  spirit  and  the  robust- 
ness of  the  galloping  twenties.  In  appearance  the  two  were 
splendidly  matched.  The  faint  defiance  which  Braybrooke 
thought  he  detected  in  their  eyes  suited  them  both,  giving 
to  them  just  a  touch  of  the  arrogance  which  youth  and  health 
render  charming,  but  which  in  old  people  is  repellent  and  ugly. 
They  wore  it  like  a  feather  set  at  just  the  right  rakish  angle 
in  a  cap.  Nevertheless,  this  slight  dryness  must  be  got  rid 
of  if  the  evening  were  to  be  a  success,  and  Braybrooke  set 
himself  to  the  task  of  banishing  it.  He  talked  of  golf.  Like 
many  American  girls,  Miss  Van  Tuyn  was  at  home  in  most 
sports  and  games.  She  was  a  good  whip,  a  fine  skater  and 
lawn  tennis  player,  had  shot  and  hunted  in  France,  liked  racing, 
and  had  learnt  to  play  golf  on  the  links  at  Cannes  when 
she  was  a  girl  of  fifteen.  But  to-night  she  was  not  enthusiastic 
about  golf,  perhaps  because  Craven  was.  She  said  it  was  an 
irritating  game,  that  playing  it  much  always  gave  people  a 
worried  look,  that  a  man  who  had  sliced  his  first  drive  was 
a  bore  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  that  a  woman  whom  you  beat 
in  a  match  tried  to  do  you  harm  as  long  as  you  and  she  lived. 


238  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

Finally  she  said  it  was  certainly  a  fine  game,  but  a  game  for 
old  people.  Craven  protested,  but  she  held  resolutely  to  her 
point.  In  other  games — except  croquet,  which  she  frankly 
loathed  in  spite  of  its  scientific  possibilities — you  moved  quickly, 
were  obliged  to  be  perpetually  on  the  alert.  In  tennis  and 
lawn  tennis,  in  racquets,  in  hockey,  in  cricket,  you  never  knew 
what  was  going  to  happen,  when  you  might  have  to  do  some- 
thing, to  make  a  swift  movement,  a  dash  here  or  there,  a  dive, 
a  leap,  a  run.  But  in  golf  half  your  time  was  spent  in  sol- 
emnly walking — toddling,  she  chose  to  call  it — from  point  to 
point.  This  was,  no  doubt,  excellent  for  the  health,  but  she 
preferred  swiftness.  But  then  she  was  only  a  light-footed 
girl,  not  an  elderly  statesman. 

"When  I  play  golf  much  I  always  begin  to  feel  like  a 
gouty  Prime  Minister  who  has  been  ordered  to  play  for  the 
good  of  the  country,"  she  said.  "But  when  I'm  an  old  woman 
I  shall  certainly  play  regularly  for  the  sake  of  my  figure  and 
my  complexion.  When  I  am  sixty  you  will  probably  see  me 
every  day  on  the  links." 

Braybrooke  saw  a  cloud  float  over  Craven's  face  as  she 
said  this,  but  it  vanished  as  he  looked  away  towards  the  hall. 
There,  through  the  glass  of  the  dividing  screen.  Lady  Selling- 
worth's  tall  and  thin  figure,  wrapped  in  a  long  cloak  of  dark 
fur,  was  visible,  going  with  her  careless,  trampish  walk  to 
the  ladies'  cloak-room. 

"Ah,  there  is  Adela  Sellingworth !"  said  Braybrooke. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  turned  quickly,  with  a  charming,  youthful 
grace,  made  up  of  a  suppleness  and  litheness  which  suggested 
almost  the  movement  of  a  fluid.  Craven  noted  it  with  a  little 
thrill  of  unexpected  pleasure,  against  which  an  instant  later 
something  in  him  rebelled. 

"Where  is  she?"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn. 

"She's  just  gone  into  the  ladies'  cloak-room,"  answered 
Braybrooke. 

"But  not  to  powder  her  face !"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn.  "She 
keeps  us  waiting,  like  the  great  prima  donna  in  a  concert,  just 
long  enough  to  give  a  touch  of  excitement  to  her  appearance. 
Dear  Lady  Sellingworth !  She  has  a  wonderful  knowledge  of 
just  how  to  do  things.  That  only  comes  out  of  a  vast  ex- 
perience." 


CHAPTER  11  DECEMBER  LOVE  239 

"Or — don't  you  think  that  kind  of  thing  may  be  instinctive  ?" 
said  Craven. 

She  sought  his  eyes  with  a  sort  of  soft  hardihood  which  was 
very  alluring. 

"Women  are  not  half  as  instinctive  as  men  think  them," 
she  said.  "I'll  tell  you  a  little  secret.  They  calculate  more 
than  a  senior  wrangler  does." 

"Now  you  are  maligning  yourself."  he  said,  smiling. 

"No.  For  I  haven't  quite  got  to  the  age  of  calculation 
yet." 

"Oh— I  see." 

"Here  she  comes!"  said  Braybrooke. 

And  he  went  towards  the  door,  leaving  "our  young  friends" 
for  a  moment. 

"But  what  has  she  done  to  herself?"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn. 

"Done!    Lady  Sellingworth ?" 

"Yes.     Or  is  it  only  her  hair?" 

Craven  wondered,  too,  as  Lady  Sellingworth  joined  them, 
accompanied  by  her  host.  For  there  was  surely  some  slight, 
and  yet  definite,  change  in  her  appearance.  She  looked,  he 
thought,  younger,  brighter,  more  vivid  than  she  generally 
looked.  Her  white  hair  certainly  was  arranged  differently 
from  the  way  he  was  now  accustomed  to.  It  seemed  thicker; 
there  seemed  to  be  more  of  it  than  usual.  It  looked  more 
alive,  too,  and  it  marked  in,  he  thought,  an  exquisite  way  the 
beautiful  shape  of  her  head.  A  black  riband  was  cleverly 
entangled  in  it,  and  a  big  diamond  shone  upon  the  riband  in 
front  above  her  white  forehead,  weary  with  the  years,  but  un- 
commonly expressive.  She  wore  black  as  usual,  and  had  an- 
other broad  black  riband  round  her  throat  with  a  fine  diamond 
brooch  fastened  to  it.  Her  gown  was  slightly  open  at  the 
front.  There  were  magnificent  diamond  earrings  in  her  ears. 
They  made  Craven  think  of  the  jewels  stolen  long  ago  at 
the  station  in  Paris.  This  evening  the  whiteness  of  her  hair 
seemed  wonderful,  as  the  whiteness  of  thickly  powdered  hair 
sometimes  seems.  And  her  eyes  beneath  it  were  amazingly 
vivid,  startlingly  alive  in  their  glancing  brightness.  They  looked 
careless  and  laughingly  self-possessed  as  she  came  up  to  greet 
the  girl  and  young  man,  matching  delightfully  her  careless  and 
self-possessed  movement. 


240  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

At  that  tr^oment  Craven  realized,  as  he  had  certainly  never 
realized  before,  what  a  beauty — in  his  mind  he  said  what  a 
"stunning  beauty" — Lady  Sellingworth  must  once  have  been. 
Even  her  face  seemed  to  him  in  some  way  altered  to-night, 
though  he  could  not  have  told  how. 

Certainly  she  looked  younger  than  usual.  He  was  positive 
of  that:  still  positive  when  he  saw  her  standing  by  Miss  Van 
Tuyn  and  taking  her  hand.  Then  she  turned  to  him  and  gave 
him  a  friendly  and  careless,  almost  haphazard,  greeting,  still 
smiling  and  looking  ready  for  anything.  And  then  at  once  they 
went  into  the  restaurant  up  the  broad  steps.  And  Craven 
noticed  that  everyone  they  passed  by  glanced  at  Lady  Selling- 
worth. 

At  that  moment  he  felt  very  proud  of  her  friendship.  He 
even  felt  the  touch  of  romance  in  it,  of  a  strange  and  unusual 
romance  far  removed  from  the  sort  of  thing  usually  sung  of 
by  poets  and  written  of  by  novelists. 

"She  is  unusual !"  he  thought.  "And  so  am  I ;  and  our 
friendship  is  unusual  too.  There  has  never  before  been  any- 
thing quite  like  it." 

And  he  glowed  with  a  warming  sense  of  difference  from 
ordinary  life. 

But  Miss  Van  Tuyn  was  claiming  his  urgent  attention,  and  a 
waiter  was  giving  him  Whitstable  oysters,  and  Chablis  was 
being  poured  into  his  glass,  and  the  band  was  beginning  to 
play  a  selection  from  the  music  of  Grieg,  full  of  the  poetry 
and  the  love  of  the  North,  where  deep  passions  come  out  of 
the  snows  and  last  often  longer  than  the  loves  of  the  South. 
He  must  give  himself  up  to  it  all,  and  to  the  wonderful  white- 
haired  woman,  too,  with  the  great  diamonds  gleaming  in  her 
ears. 

It  really  was  quite  a  buoyant  dinner,  and  Braybrooke  be- 
gan to  feel  more  at  ease.  He  had  told  them  all  where  they  were 
going  afterwards,  but  had  said  nothing  about  Walter's  descrip- 
tion of  the  play.  None  of  them  had  seen  it,  but  Craven 
seemed  to  know  all  about  it,  and  said  it  was  an  entertaining 
study  of  life  behind  the  scenes  at  the  opera,  with  a  great  singer 
as  protagonist. 

"He  was  drawn,  I  believe,  from  a  famous  baritone." 

During  a  great  part  of  her  life  Lady  Sellingworth  had  been 


CHAPTER  II  DECEMBER  LOVE  241 

an  ardent  lover  of  the  opera,  and  she  had  known  many  of  the 
leading  singers  in  Paris  and  London. 

"They  always  seemed  to  me  to  be  torn  by  jealousy,"  she 
said,  "and  often  to  suffer  from  the  mania  of  persecution! 
Really,  they  are  like  a  race  apart." 

And  the  conversation  turned  to  jealousy.  Braybrooke  said 
he  had  never  suffered  from  it,  did  not  know  what  it  was.  And 
they  smiled  at  him,  and  told  him  that  then  he  could  have 
no  temperament.  Craven  declared  that  he  believed  almost  the 
whole  human  race  knew  the  ugly  intimacies  of  jealousy  in 
some  form  or  other. 

"And  yourself?"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn. 

"I !"  he  said,  and  looking  up  saw  Lady  Sellingworth's  bril- 
liant eyes  fixed  on  him. 

"Do  you  know  them  ?" 

"I  have  felt  jealousy  certainly,  but  never  yet  as  I  could 
feel  it." 

"What!  You  are  conscious  of  a  great  capacity  for  feel- 
ing jealous,  a  capacity  which  has  never  yet  had  its  full  fling?" 
said  the  girl. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

And  his  lips  were  smiling,  but  there  was  a  serious  look  in 
his  eyes. 

And  they  discussed  the  causes  of  jealousy. 

"We  shall  see  it  to-night  on  the  stage  in  its  professional 
form,"  said  Craven. 

"And  that  is  its  least  forgivable  form,"  said  Lady  Selling- 
worth.  "Jealousy  which  is  not  bound  up  with  the  affections 
is  a  cold  and  hideous  thing.  But  I  cannot  understand  a  love 
which  is  incapable  of  jealousy.  In  fact,  I  don't  think  I  could 
believe  it  to  be  love  at  all." 

This  remark,  coming  from  those  lips,  surprised  Braybrooke. 
For  Lady  Sellingworth  was  not  wont  to  turn  any  talk  in 
which  she  took  part  upon  questions  concerned  with  the  heart. 
He  had  frequently  noticed  her  apparent  aversion  from  all 
topics  connected  with  deep  feeling.  To-night,  it  seemed,  this 
aversion  had  died  out  of  her. 

In  answer  to  the  last  remark  Miss  Van  Tuyn  said : 

"Then,  dear,  you  rule  out  perfect  trust  in  a  matter  of  love, 
do  you?    All  the  sentimentalists  say  that  perfect  love  breeds 


242  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

perfect  trust.  If  that  is  so,  how  can  great  lovers  be  jealous? 
For  jealousy,  I  suppose — I  have  never  felt  it  myself  in  that 
way — is  born  out  of  doubt,  but  can  never  exist  side  by  side 
with  complete  confidence." 

"Ah!  But  Beryl,  in  how  many  people  in  the  course  of 
a  lifetime  can  one  have  complete  confidence?  I  have  scarcely 
met  one.     What  do  you  say?" 

She  turned  her  head  towards  Braybrooke.  He  looked  sud- 
denly rather  plaintive,  like  a  man  who  realizes  unexpectedly 
how  lonely  he  is. 

"Oh,  I  hope  I  know  a  few  such  people,"  he  rejoined  rather 
anxiously.  "I  have  been  very  lucky  in  my  friends.  And  I 
like  to  think  the  best  of  people." 

"That  is  kind,"  said  Lady  Sellingworth.  "But  I  prefer  to 
know  the  truth  of  people.  And  I  must  say  I  think  most  of 
us  are  quicksands.  The  worst  of  it  is  that  so  often  when 
we  do  for  a  moment  feel  we  are  on  firm  ground  we  find 
it  either  too  hard  for  our  feet  or  too  flat  for  our  liking." 

At  that  moment  she  thought  of  Sir  Seymour  Portman. 

"You  think  it  is  doubt  which  breeds  fascination  ?"  said  Craven. 

"Alas  for  us  if  it  is  so?"  she  answered,  smiling, 

"The  human  race  is  a  very  unsatisfactory  race,"  said  Miss 
Van  Tuyn.  "I  am  only  twenty-four  and  have  found  that  out 
already.  It  is  very  clever  of  the  French  to  cultivate  irony  as 
they  do.  The  ironist  always  wears  clothes  and  an  undershirt 
of  mail.  But  the  sentimentalist  goes  naked  in  the  east  wind 
which  blows  through  society.  Not  only  is  he  bound  to  take 
cold,  but  he  is  liable  to  be  pierced  by  every  arrow  that  flies." 

"Yes,  it  is  wise  to  cultivate  irony,"  said  Lady  Sellingworth. 

"You  have,"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn.  "One  often  sees  it  in 
your  eyes.    Isn't  it  true  ?" 

She  turned  to  Craven;  but  he  did  not  choose  to  agree  with 
her. 

"I'm  a  sentimentalist,"  he  said  firmly.  "And  I  never  look 
about  for  irony.  Perhaps  that's  why  I  have  not  found  it  in 
Lady  Sellingworth." 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  sent  him  a  glance  which  said  plainly,  but 
prettily,  "You  humbug!"  But  he  did  not  mind.  Once  he  had 
discussed  Lady  Sellingworth  with  Miss  Van  Tuyn.  They  had 
wondered  about  her  together.    They  had  even  talked  about  her 


CHAPTER  II  DECEMBER  LOVE  243 

mystery.  But  that  seemed  to  Craven  a  long  time  ago.  Now 
he  would  far  rather  discuss  Miss  Van  Tuyn  with  Lady  Selling- 
worth  than  discuss  Lady  Sellingworth  with  Miss  Van  Tuyn, 
So  he  would  not  even  acknowledge  that  he  had  noticed  the 
mocking  look  in  Lady  Sellingworth's  eyes.  Already  he  had  the 
feeling  of  a  friend  who  does  not  care  to  dissect  the  mentality 
and  character  of  his  friend  with  another.  Something  in  him 
even  had  an  instinct  to  protect  Lady  Sellingworth  from  Miss 
Van  Tuyn.  That  was  surely  absurd ;  unless,  indeed,  age  always 
needs  protection  from  the  cruelty  of  youth. 

Francis  Braybrooke  began  to  speak  about  Paris,  and  again 
Miss  Van  Tuyn  said  that  she  would  never  rest  till  she  had  per- 
suaded Lady  Sellingworth  to  renew  her  acquaintance  with  that 
intense  and  apparently  light-hearted  city,  which  contains  so 
many  secret  terrors. 

"You  will  come  some  day,"  she  said,  with  a  sort  of  almost 
ruthless  obstinacy. 

"Why  not?"  said  Lady  Sellingworth.  "I  have  been  very 
happy  in  Paris." 

"And  yet  you  have  deserted  it  for  years  and  years !  You  are 
an  enigma.    Isn't  she,  Mr.  Braybrooke?" 

Before  Braybrooke  had  time  to  reply  to  this  direct  question 
an  interruption  occurred.  Two  ladies,  coming  in  to  dinner 
accompanied  by  two  young  men,  paused  by  Braybrooke's  table, 
and  someone  said  in  a  clear,  hard  voice : 

"What  a  dinky  little  party!  And  where  are  you  all  going 
afterwards?" 

Craven  and  Braybrooke  got  up  to  greet  two  famous  members 
of  the  "old  guard,"  Lady  Wrackley  and  Mrs.  Ackroyde.  Lady 
Sellingworth  and  Miss  Van  Tuyn  turned  in  their  chairs,  and 
for  a  moment  there  was  a  little  disjointed  conversation,  in  the 
course  of  which  it  came  out  that  this  quartet,  too,  was  bound 
for  the  Shaftesbury  Theatre. 

"You  are  coming  out  of  your  shell,  Adela !  Better  late  than 
never !"  said  Lady  Wrackley  to  Lady  Sellingworth,  while  Miss 
Van  Tuyn  quietly  collected  the  two  young  men,  both  of  whom 
she  knew,  with  her  violet  eyes.  "I  hear  of  you  all  over  the 
place." 

She  glanced  penetratingly  at  Craven  with  her  carefully  made- 
up  eyes,  which  were  like  the  eyes  of  a  liandsome  and  wary 


244  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

bird.  Her  perfectly  arranged  hair  was  glossy  brown,  with 
glints  in  it  like  the  colour  of  a  horse-chestnut.  She  showed 
her  wonderful  teeth  in  the  smile  which  came  like  a  sudden  gleam 
of  electric  light,  and  went  as  if  a  hand  had  turned  back  the 
switch. 

"I'm  becoming  dissipated,"  said  Lady  Sellingworth.  "Three 
evenings  out  in  one  month!  If  I  have  one  foot  in  the  grave, 
I  shall  have  the  other  in  the  Shaftesbury  Theatre  to-night." 

One  of  the  young  men,  a  fair,  horsey-looking  boy,  with  a 
yellow  moustache,  a  turned-up  nose,  and  an  almost  abnormally 
impudent  and  larky  expression,  laughed  in  a  very  male  and 
soldierly  way;  the  other,  who  was  dark,  with  a  tall  figure  and 
severe  grey  eyes,  looked  impenetrably  grave  and  absent  minded. 

"Well,  I  shall  die  if  I  don't  have  a  good  dinner  at  once,"  said 
Mrs.  Ackroyde.     "Is  that  a  Doucet  frock.  Beryl?" 

"No.    Count  Kalinsky  designed  it." 

"Oh — Igor  Kalinsky !  Adela,  we  are  in  Box  B.  We  must 
have  a  powwow  between  the  acts." 

She  looked  from  Lady  Sellingworth  to  Craven  and  back 
again.  Short,  very  handsome,  always  in  perfect  health,  with 
brows  and  eyes  which  somehow  suggested  a  wild  creature, 
she  had  an  honest  and  quite  unaffected  face.  Her  manner  was 
bold  and  direct.  There  was  something  lasting — some  said  ever- 
lasting— in  her  atmosphere. 

"I  cannot  conceive  of  London  without  Dindie  Ackroyde," 
said  Braybrooke,  as  Mrs.  Ackroyde  led  the  way  to  the  next 
table  and  sat  down  opposite  to  Craven. 

And  they  began  to  talk  about  people.  Craven  said  very 
little.  Since  the  arrival  of  the  other  quartet  he  had  begun  to 
feel  sensitively  uncomfortable.  He  realized  that  already  his 
new  friendship  for  Lady  Sellingworth  had  "got  about,"  though 
how  he  could  not  imagine.  He  was  certain  that  the  "old 
guard"  were  already  beginning  to  talk  of  Addie  SelHngworth's 
"new  man."  He  had  seen  awareness,  that  strange  feminine 
interest  which  is  more  than  half  hostile,  in  the  eyes  of  both 
Lady  Wrackley  and  Mrs.  Ackroyde.  Was  it  impossible,  then, 
in  this  horrible  whispering  gallery  of  London,  to  have  any 
privacy  of  the  soul?  (He  thought  that  his  friendship  really 
had  something  of  the  soul  in  it.)  He  felt  stripped  by  the  eyes 
of  those  two  women  at  the  neighbouring  table,  and  he  glanced 


CHAPTER  II  DECEMBER  LOVE  245 

at  Lady  Sellingworth  almost  furtively,  wondering  what  she 
was  feeling.  But  she  looked  exactly  as  usual,  and  was  talking 
with  animation,  and  he  realized  that  her  long  habit  of  the  world 
enabled  her  to  wear  a  mask  at  will.  Or  was  she  less  sensitive 
in  such  matters  than  he  was  ? 

"How  preoccupied  you  are!"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  voice 
in  his  ear.  "You  see  I  was  right.  Golf  ruins  the  social  qualities 
in  a  man." 

Then  Craven  resolutely  set  himself  to  be  sociable.  He  even 
acted  a  part,  still  acutely  conscious  of  the  eyes  of  the  "old 
guard,"  and  almost  made  love  to  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  as  a  man 
may  make  love  at  a  dinner  tble.  He  was  sure  Lady  Selling- 
worth  would  not  misunderstand  him.  Whether  Miss  Van 
Tuyn  misunderstood  him  or  not  did  not  matter  to  him  at  that 
moment.  He  saw  her  beauty  clearly ;  he  was  able  to  note  all 
the  fluid  fascination  of  her  delicious  youth  fulness ;  the  charm 
of  it  went  to  him;  and  yet  he  felt  no  inclination  to  waver  in 
his  allegiance  to  Lady  Sellingworth.  It  was  as  if  a  personality 
enveloped  him,  held  his  senses  as  well  as  his  mind  in  a  soft 
and  powerful  grasp.  Not  that  his  senses  were  irritated  to 
alertness,  or  played  upon  to  exasperation.  They  were  merely 
inhibited  from  any  activity  in  connexion  with  another,  however 
beautiful  and  desirable.  Lady  Sellingworth  roused  no  physical 
desire  in  Craven,  although  she  fascinated  him.  What  she  did 
was  just  this:  she  deprived  him  of  physical  desire.  Miss  Van 
Tuyn's  arrows  were  shot  all  in  vain  that  night.  But  Craven 
now  acted  well,  for  women's  keen  eyes  were  upon  him. 

Presently  they  got  up  to  go  to  the  theatre,  leaving  the  other 
quartet  behind  them,  quite  willing  to  be  late. 

"Moscovitch  doesn't  come  on  for  some  time,"  said  Mrs. 
Ackroyde.  "And  we  are  only  going  to  see  him.  The  play  is 
nothing  extraordinary.     Where  are  you  sitting?" 

Braybrooke  told  her  the  number  of  their  box. 

"We  are  just  opposite  to  you  then,"  she  said. 

"Mind  you  behave  prettily,  Adela  !"  said  Lady  Wrackley. 

"I  have  almost  forgotten  how  to  behave  in  a  theatre,"  she 
said.  "I  go  to  the  play  so  seldom.  You  shall  give  me  some 
hints  on  conduct,  Mr.  Craven." 

And  she  turned  and  led  the  way  out  of  the  restaurant,  nod- 
ding to  people  here  and  there  whom  she  knew. 


246  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

Her  big  motor  was  waiting  outside,  and  they  all  got  into  it. 
Braybrooke  and  Craven  sat  on  the  small  front  seats,  sideways, 
so  that  they  could  talk  to  their  companions;  and  they  flashed 
through  the  busy  streets,  coming  now  and  then  into  the  gleam 
of  lamplight  and  looking  vivid,  then  gliding  on  into  shadows 
and  becoming  vague  and  almost  mysterious.  As  they  crossed 
Piccadilly  Circus  Miss  Van  Tuyn  said: 

"What  a  contrast  to  our  walk  that  night!" 

"This  way  of  travelling?"  said  Lady  Sellingworth. 

"Yes.  Which  do  you  prefer,  the  life  of  Soho  and  the  streets 
and  raw  humanity,  or  the  Rolls-Royce  life?" 

"Oh,  I  am  far  too  old,  and  far  too  fixed  in  my  habits  to 
make  any  drastic  change  in  my  way  of  life,"  said  Lady  Selling- 
worth,  looking  out  of  the  window. 

"You  didn't  like  your  little  experience  the  other  night  enough 
to  repeat  it  ?"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn. 

As  she  spoke  Craven  saw  her  eyes  gazing  at  him  in  the 
shadow.     They  looked  rather  hard  and  searching,  he  thought. 

"Oh,  some  day  I'll  go  to  the  Bella  Napoli  again  with  you, 
Beryl,  if  you  like." 

"Thank  you,  dearest,"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  rather  drily. 

And  again  Craven  saw  her  eyes  fixed  upon  him  with  a  hard, 
steady  look. 

The  car  sped  by  the  Monico,  and  Braybrooke,  glancing  with 
distaste  at  the  crowd  of  people  one  could  never  wish  to  know 
outside  it,  wondered  how  the  tall  woman  opposite  to  him  with 
the  diamonds  flashing  in  her  ears  had  ever  condescended  to 
push  her  way  among  them  at  night,  to  rub  shoulders  with  those 
awful  women,  those  furtive  and  evil-looking  men.  "But  she 
must  have  some  kink  in  her!"  he  thought,  and  thanked  God 
because  he  had  no  kink,  or  at  any  rate  knew  of  none  which 
disturbed  him.  The  car  drew  up  at  the  theatre,  and  they  went 
to  their  box.  It  was  large  enough  for  three  to  sit  in  a  row 
in  the  front,  and  Craven  insisted  on  Braybrooke  taking  the 
place  between  the  two  women,  while  he  took  the  chair  in  the 
shadow  behind  Lady  Sellingworth. 

The  curtain  was  already  up  when  they  came  in,  and  a  large 
and  voluble  man,  almost  like  a  human  earthquake,  was  talking 
in  broken   English   interspersed   with   sonorous   Italian   to   a 


CHAPTER  II  DECEMBER  LOVE  247 

worried-looking  man  who  sat  before  a  table  in  a  large  and 
gaudily  furnished  office. 

The  talk  was  all  about  singers,  contracts,  the  opera. 

Craven  glanced  across  the  theatre  and  saw  a  big,  empty  box 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  house.  The  rest  of  the  house  was 
full.     He  saw  many  Jews. 

Lady  Sellingworth  leaned  well  forward  with  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  stage,  and  seemed  interested  as  the  play  developed. 

"They  are  just  like  that!"  she  whispered  presently,  half 
turning  to  Craven. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  looked  round.  She  seemed  bored.  Paris, 
perhaps,  had  spoiled  for  her  the  acting  in  London,  or  the  play 
so  far  did  not  interest  her.  Braybrooke  glanced  at  her  rather 
anxiously.  He  did  not  approve  of  the  way  in  which  he  and 
his  guests  were  seated  in  the  box,  and  was  sure  she  did  not 
like  it.     Craven  ought  to  be  beside  her. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?"  he  murmured. 

"The  operatic  types  aren't  bad." 

She  leaned  with  an  elbow  on  the  edge  of  the  box  and  looked 
vaguely  about  the  house. 

"I  shall  insist  on  a  change  of  seats  after  the  interval!" 
thought  Braybrooke. 

A  few  minutes  passed.  Then  the  door  of  the  box  opposite 
was  opened  and  Lady  Wrackley  appeared,  followed  by  Dindie 
Ackroyde  and  the  two  young  men  who  had  dined  with  them. 
Lady  Wrackley,  looking — Craven  thought — like  a  remarkably 
fine  pouter  pigeon,  came  to  the  front  of  the  box  and  stared 
about  the  house,  while  the  young  man  with  the  turned-up  nose 
gently,  yet  rather  familiarly,  withdrew  from  her  a  long  coat 
of  ermine.  Meanwhile  Mrs.  Ackroyde  sat  down,  keeping  on 
her  cloak,  which  was  the  colour  of  an  Indian  sky  at  night, 
and  immediately  became  absorbed  in  the  traffic  of  the  stage. 
It  was  obvious  that  she  really  cared  for  art,  while  Lady 
Wrackley  cared  about  the  effect  she  was  creating  on  the  audi- 
ence. It  seemed  a  long  time  before  she  sat  down,  and  let  the 
two  young  men  sit  down  too.  But  suddenly  there  was  ap- 
plause and  no  one  was  looking  at  her.  Moscovitch  had  walked 
upon  the  stage. 

"That  man  can  act!" 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  had  spoken. 


248  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

"He  gets  you  merely  by  coming  on.     That  is  acting !" 

And  immediately  she  was  intent  on  the  stage. 

When  the  curtain  fell  Braybrooke  got  up  resolutely  and  stood 
at  the  back  of  the  box.  Craven,  too,  stood  up,  and  they  all 
discussed  the  play. 

"It's  a  character  study,  simply  that,"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn. 
"The  persistent  lover  vv^ho  can't  leave  off " 

"Trying  to  love !"  interposed  Lady  Sellingworth.  "Follow- 
ing the  great  illusion." 

And  they  debated  whether  the  great  singer  was  an  idealist 
or  merely  a  sensualist,  or  perhaps  both.  Miss  Van  Tuyn 
thought  he  was  only  the  latter,  and  Braybrooke  agreed  with 
her.     But  Lady  Sellingworth  said  no. 

"He  is  in  love  with  love,  I  think,  and  everyone  who  is  in 
love  with  love  is  seeking  the  flame  in  the  darkness.  We  wrong 
many  people  by  dubbing  them  mere  sensualists.  The  mystery 
has  a  driving  force  which  many  cannot  resist." 

"What  mystery,  dearest?"  asked  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  not  with- 
out irony. 

But  at  this  moment  there  was  a  tap  at  the  door  of  the  box, 
and  Craven  opened  it  to  find  Mrs.  Ackroyde  and  the  young 
man  with  the  severe  eyes  waiting  outside. 

"May  we  come  in?     Is  there  room?"  said  Mrs.  Ackroyde. 

There  was  plenty  of  room. 

"Lena  will  be  happier  without  us,"  Mrs.  Ackroyde  explained, 
without  a  smile,  and  looking  calmly  at  Lady  Sellingworth. 
"If  I  sit  quite  at  the  back  here  I  can  smoke  a  cigarette  without 
being  stopped.     Bobbie,  you  might  give  me  a  match." 

The  severe  young  man,  who  looked  like  a  sad  sensualist, 
one  of  those  men  who  try  to  cloak  intensity  with  grimness,  did 
as  he  was  bid,  and  they  renewed  the  discussion  which  had  been 
stopped  for  a  moment,  bringing  the  newcomers  into  it.  Lady 
Sellingworth  explained  that  the  mystery  she  had  spoken  of 
was  the  inner  necessity  to  try  to  find  love  which  drives  many 
human  beings.  She  spoke  without  sentimentality,  almost  with 
a  sort  of  scientific  coldness  as  one  stating  facts  not  to  be  gain- 
said. Mrs.  Ackroyde  said  she  liked  the  theory.  It  was  such 
a  comfortable  one.  Whenever  she  made  a  sidestep  she  would 
now  be  able  to  feel  that  she  was  driven  to  it  by  an  inner  neces- 
sity, planted  in  her  fatally  by  the  Immanent  Will,  or  whatever 


CHAPTER  n  DECEMBER  LOVE  249 

it  was  that  governed  humanity.  As  she  spoke  she  looked  at 
the  man  she  had  called  Bobbie,  who  was  Sir  Robert  Syng, 
private  secretary  to  a  prominent  minister,  and  when  she  stopped 
speaking  he  said  he  had  never  been  able  to  believe  in  free  will, 
though  he  always  behaved  as  if  he  thought  he  possessed  it. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  thereupon  remarked  that  as  some  people  are 
born  with  tempers  and  intellects  and  some  without  them,  per- 
haps it  was  the  same  with  free  will.  She  was  quite  positive 
she  had  a  free  will,  but  the  very  first  time  she  had  seen  Sir 
Robert  she  had  had  her  doubts  about  his  having  that  precious 
possession.  This  sally,  designed  to  break  up  the  general  con- 
versation and  to  fasten  Sir  Robert's  attention  on  herself,  led 
to  an  animated  discussion  between  her  and  Mrs.  Ackroyde's 
"man."  But  Mrs.  Ackroyde,  though  her  large  dark  eyes 
showed  complete  understanding  of  the  manoeuvre,  did  not  seem 
to  mind,  and,  turning  her  attention  to  Craven,  she  began  to 
speak  about  acting.  Meanwhile  Lady  Sellingworth  went  out 
into  the  corridor  with  Braybrooke  to  "get  a  little  air." 

While  Mrs.  Ackroyde  talked  Craven  felt  that  she  was  think- 
ing about  him  with  an  enormously  experienced  mind.  She 
had  been  married  twice,  and  was  now  a  widow.  No  woman 
knew  more  about  life  and  the  world  in  a  general  way  than  she 
did.  Her  complete  but  quiet  self-possession,  her  rather  blunt 
good  nature,  and  her  perfect  health,  had  carried  her  safely, 
and  as  a  rule  successfully,  through  multifarious  experiences 
and  perhaps  through  many  dangers.  It  was  impossible  to 
conceive  of  her  being  ever  "knocked  out"  by  any  happening 
however  untoward  it  might  be.  She  was  one  of  the  stalwarts 
of  the  "old  guard."  Craven  certainly  did  not  dislike  her.  But 
now  he  felt  almost  afraid  of  her.  For  he  knew  her  present 
interest  in  him  arose  from  suspicions  about  him  and  Lady 
Sellingworth  which  were  floating  through  her  brain.  She  had 
heard  something;  had  been  informed  of  something;  someone 
had  hinted ;  someone  had  told.  How  do  such  things  become 
suspected  in  a  city  like  London?  Craven  could  not  imagine 
how  the  "old  guard"  had  come  already  to  know  of  his  new 
friendship  with  Lady  Sellingworth.  But  he  was  now  quite 
sure  that  he  had  been  talked  about,  and  that  Mrs.  Ackroyde 
was  considering  him,  his  temperament,  his  character,  his  pos- 


250  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

sibilities  in  connexion  with  the  famous  Adela,  once  of  the  "old 
guard,"  but  long  since  traitress  to  it. 

And  he  felt  as  if  he  were  made  of  glass  beneath  those  ex- 
perienced and  calmly  investigating  eyes,  as  he  talked  steadily 
about  acting  till  the  bell  went  for  the  second  act,  and  Lady 
Sellingworth  and  Braybrooke  returned  to  the  box. 

"Come  and  see  me,"  said  Mrs.  Ackroyde,  getting  up.  "You 
never  come  near  me.  And  come  down  to  Coombe  to  lunch 
one  Sunday." 

"Thank  you  very  much.     I  will." 

"And  bring  Adela  with  you !" 

With  a  casual  nod  or  two,  and  a  "Come,  Bobbie,  I  am  sure 
you  have  flirted  quite  enough  with  Beryl  by  this  time!"  she 
went  out  of  the  box,  followed  by  her  grim  but  good-looking 
cavalier. 

"You  must  sit  in  front  through  this  act." 

Braybrooke  spoke. 

"Oh,  but " 

"No,  really — I  insist!    You  don't  see  properly  behind." 

Craven  took  the  chair  between  the  two  women.  As  he  did 
so  he  glanced  at  Miss  Van  Tuyn.  His  chair  was  certainly 
nearer  to  hers  than  to  Lady  Sellingworth's,  much  nearer. 
Syng  had  sat  in  it  and  must  have  moved  it.  As  she  half  turned 
and  said  something  to  Craven  her  bare  silky  arm  touched  his 
sleeve,  and  their  faces  were  very  near  together.  Her  eyes 
spoke  to  liim  definitely,  called  him  to  be  young  again  with  her. 
And  as  the  curtain  went  up  she  whispered : 

"It  was  I  who  insisted  on  a  party  of  four  to-night." 

Lady  Sellingworth  and  Braybrooke  were  talking  together, 
and  Craven  answered: 

"To  Mr.  Braybrooke?" 

"Yes ;  so  that  we  might  have  a  nice  little  time.  And  Adela 
and  he  are  old  friends  and  contemporaries!  I  knew  they 
would  be  happy  together." 

Craven  shrank  inwardly  as  he  heard  Miss  Van  Tuyn  say 
"Adela,"  but  he  only  nodded  and  tried  to  return  adequately 
the  expression  in  her  eyes.  Then  he  looked  across  the  theatre, 
and  saw  Mrs.  Ackroyde  speaking  to  Lady  Wrackley.  After 
a  moment  they  both  gazed  at  him,  and,  seeing  his  eyes  fixed 


CHAPTER  n  DECEMBER  LOVE  261 

on  her,  Lady  Wrackley  let  go  her  smile  at  him  and  made  a 
little  gesture  with  her  hand. 

"She  knows  too — damn  her !"  thought  Craven,  impolitely. 

He  set  his  teeth. 

"They  know  everything,  these  women!  It's  useless  to  try 
to  have  the  smallest  secret  from  them!" 

And  then  he  said  to  himself  what  so  many  have  said : 

"What  does  it  matter  what  they  know,  what  they  think,  what 
they  say?     I  don't  care!" 

But  he  did  care.  He  hated  their  knowing  of  his  friendship 
with  Lady  Sellingworth,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  they  were 
scattering  dust  all  over  the  dew  of  his  feeling. 

The  second  act  of  the  play  was  more  interesting  than  the 
first,  but,  as  Miss  Van  Tuyn  said,  the  whole  thing  was  rather 
a  clever  character  study  than  a  solidly  constructed  and 
elaborately  worked  out  play.  It  was  the  fascination  of  Mosco- 
vitch  which  held  the  audience  tight  and  which  brought  thunders 
of  applause  when  the  curtain  fell. 

"If  that  man  acted  in  French  he  could  have  enormous  suc- 
cess in  Paris,"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn.  "You  have  chosen  well," 
she  added,  turning  to  Braybrooke.  "You  have  introduced  us 
to  a  great  temperament." 

Braybrooke  was  delighted,  and  still  more  delighted  when 
Lady  Sellingworth  and  Craven  both  said  that  it  was  the  best 
acting  they  had  seen  in  London  for  years. 

"But  it  comes  out  of  Russia,  I  suppose,"  said  Lady  Selling- 
worth.     "Poor,  wonderful,  horrible,  glorious  Russia!" 

"Forgive  me  for  a  moment,"  said  Braybrooke.  "Lady 
Wrackley  seems  to  want  me." 

Indeed,  the  electric-light  smile  was  being  turned  on  and  off 
in  the  box  opposite  with  unmistakable  intention,  and,  glancing 
across,  Craven  noticed  that  the  young  men  had  disappeared, 
no  doubt  to  smoke  cigarettes  in  the  foyer.  Lady  Wrackley 
and  Mrs.  Ackroyde  were  alone,  and,  seeing  them  alone,  it  was 
easier  to  Craven  to  compare  their  appearance  with  Lady 
Sellingworth's. 

Lady  Wrackley  looked  shiningly  artificial,  seemed  to  glisten 
with  artificiality,  and  her  certainly  remarkable  figure  suggested 
to  him  an  advertisement  for  a  corset  designed  by  a  genius  with 
a  view  to  the  concealment  of  fat.     Mrs.  Ackroyde  was  far 


252  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

less  artificial,  and  though  her  hair  was  dyed  it  did  not  proclaim 
the  fact  blatantly.  Certainly  it  was  difficult  to  believe  that 
both  those  ladies,  whom  Braybrooke  now  joined,  were  much 
the  same  age  as  Lady  Sellingworth.  And  yet,  in  Craven's 
opinion,  to-night  she  made  them  both  look  ordinary,  undis- 
tinguished. There  was  something  magnificent  in  her  appear- 
ance which  they  utterly  lacked. 

Braybrooke  sat  down  in  their  box,  and  Craven  was  sure  they 
were  all  talking  about  Lady  Sellingworth  and  him.  He  saw 
Braybrooke's  broad-fingered  hand  go  to  his  beard  and  was 
almost  positive  his  old  friend  was  on  the  defensive.  He  was 
surely  saying,  "No,  really,  I  don't  think  so!  I  feel  convinced 
there  is  nothing  in  it !"  Craven's  eyes  met  Lady  Selling- 
worth's,  and  it  seemed  to  him  at  that  moment  that  she  and  he 
spoke  together  without  the  knowledge  of  Miss  Van  Tuyn. 
But  immediately,  and  as  if  to  get  away  from  their  strange  and 
occult  privacy,  she  said: 

"What  have  you  been  doing  lately.  Beryl?  I  hear  Miss 
Cronin  has  come  over.  But  I  thought  you  were  not  staying 
long.     Have  you  changed  your  mind  ?" 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  said  she  might  stay  on  for  some  time,  and 
explained  that  she  was  having  lessons  in  painting. 

"In  London !  I  didn't  know  you  painted,  and  surely  the  best 
school  of  painting  is  in  Paris." 

"I  don't  paint,  dearest.  But  one  can  take  lessons  in  an  art 
without  actually  practising  the  art.  And  that  is  what  I  am 
doing.  I  like  to  know  even  though  I  cannot,  or  don't  want 
to,  do.  Dick  Garstin  is  my  master.  He  has  given  me  the 
run  of  his  studio  in  Glebe  Place." 

"And  you  watch  him  at  work?"  said  Craven. 

"Yes." 

She  fixed  her  eyes  on  him,  and  added: 

"He  is  painting  a  living  bronze." 

"Somebody  very  handsome?"  said  Lady  Sellingworth,  glanc- 
ing across  the  house  to  the  trio  in  the  box  opposite. 

"Yes,  a  man  called  Nicolas  Arabian." 

"What  a  curious  name !"  said  Lady  Sellingworth,  still  look- 
ing towards  the  opposite  box.     "Is  it  an  Englishman?" 

"No.  I  don't  know  his  nationality.  But  he  makes  a  mag- 
nificent model." 


CHAPTER  11  DECEMBER  LOVE  253 

"Oh,  he's  a  model!"  said  Craven,  also  looking-  at  the  box 
opposite. 

"He  isn't  a  professional  model.  Dick  Garstin  doesn't  pay 
him  to  sit.  I  only  mean  that  he  is  a  marvellous  subject  for  a 
portrait  and  sits  well.  Dick  happened  to  see  him  and  asked 
him  to  sit.  Dick  paints  the  people  he  wants  to  paint,  not 
those  who  want  to  be  painted  by  him.  But  he's  a  really  big 
man.     You  ought  to  know  him." 

She  said  the  last  words  to  Lady  Sellingworth,  who  replied: 

"I  very  seldom  make  new  acquaintances  now." 

"You  made  Mr.  Craven's !"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  smiling. 

"But  that  was  by  special  favour.  I  owe  Mr.  Braybrooke 
that !"  said  Craven.     "And  I  shall  be  eternally  grateful  to  him." 

His  eyes  met  Lady  Sellingworth's,  and  he  immediately  added, 
turning  to  Miss  Van  Tuyn: 

"I  have  to  thank  him  for  two  delightful  new  friends — if  I 
may  use  that  word." 

"Mr.  Braybrooke  is  a  great  benefactor,"  said  Miss  Van 
Tuyn.     "I  wonder  how  this  play  is  going  to  end." 

And  then  they  talked  about  Moscovitch  and  the  persistence 
of  a  ruling  passion  till  Braybrooke  came  back.  He  looked 
rather  grave  and  preoccupied,  and  Craven  felt  sure  that  the 
talk  in  the  opposite  box  had  been  about  Lady  Sellingworth 
and  her  "new  man,"  himself,  and,  unusually  self-conscious,  or 
moved,  perhaps,  by  an  instinct  of  self-preservation,  he  devoted 
himself  almost  with  intensity  to  Miss  Van  Tuyn  till  the  cur- 
tain went  up.  And  after  it  was  up  he  kept  his  chair  very 
close  to  hers,  sat  almost  "in  her  pocket,"  and  occasionally  mur- 
mured to  her  remarks  about  the  play. 

The  last  act  was  a  panorama  of  shifting  moods,  and  although 
there  was  little  action  they  all  followed  it  with  an  intense  in- 
terest which  afterwards  surprised  them.  But  a  master  hand 
was  playing  on  the  audience,  and  drew  at  will  from  them  what 
emotions  he  chose.  Now  and  then,  during  the  progress  of  this 
act,  Braybrooke  sent  an  anxious  glance  to  Lady  Sellingworth. 
All  this  about  loss,  though  it  was  the  loss  of  a  voice,  about  the 
end  of  a  great  career,  about  age  and  desertion,  was  dangerous 
ground.  The  love-scene  between  Moscovitch  and  the  young 
girl  seriously  perturbed  Braybrooke.  He  hoped,  he  sincerely 
hoped,  that  Adela  Sellingworth   would  not  be  upset,  would 


254  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

not  think  that  he  had  chosen  the  Shaftesbury  Theatre  for  their 
place  of  entertainment  with  any  arriere  pensee.  He  fancied 
that  her  face  began  to  look  rather  hard  and  "set"  as  the  act 
drew  near  its  end.  But  he  was  not  sure.  For  the  auditorium 
was  rather  dark;  he  could  not  see  her  quite  clearly.  And  he 
looked  at  Craven  and  Miss  Van  Tuyn  and  thought,  rather 
bitterly,  how  sane  and  how  right  his  intentions  had  been. 
Youth  should  mate  with  youth.  It  was  not  natural  for  mature, 
or  old,  age  to  be  closely  allied  with  youth  in  any  passionate 
bond.  In  such  a  bond  youth  was  at  a  manifest  disadvantage. 
And  it  seemed  to  Braybrooke  that  age  was  sometimes,  too  often 
indeed,  a  vampire  going  about  to  satisfy  its  appetite  on  youth, 
to  slake  its  sad  thirst  at  the  well-spring  of  youth.  He  looked, 
too,  at  the  women  in  the  box  opposite,  and  at  the  young  men 
with  them,  and  he  regretted  that  so  many  human  beings  were 
at  grips  with  the  natural.  He  at  any  rate,  although  he  care- 
fully concealed  his  age,  never  did  unsuitable  things,  or  fell  into 
anything  undignified.  Yet  was  he  rewarded  for  his  intense 
and  unremitting  carefulness  in  life? 

A  telephone  bell  sounded  on  the  stage,  and  thtj  unhappy 
singer,  bereft  of  romance,  his  career  finished,  decadence  and 
old  age  staring  him  in  the  face,  went  to  answer  the  call.  But 
suddenly  his  face  changed ;  a  brightness,  an  alertness  came 
into  it  and  even,  mysteriously,  into  all  his  body.  There  was 
a  woman  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire,  and  she  was  young  and 
pretty,  and  she  was  asking  him  to  meet  her.  As  he  was  re- 
plying gaily,  with  smiling  lips,  and  a  greedy  look  in  his  eyes 
that  was  half  child-like,  half  satyr-like,  the  curtain  fell.  The 
play  was  at  an  end,  leaving  the  impression  upon  the  audience 
that  there  is  no  end  to  the  life  of  a  ruling  passion  in  a  man 
while  he  lives,  that  the  ruling  passion  can  only  die  when  he 
dies. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  and  Craven,  standing  up  in  the  box,  ap- 
plauded vigorously. 

"That's  a  true  finish !"  the  girl  said.  "He's  really  a  modern 
Baron  Hulot.  When  he's  seventy  he'll  creep  upstairs  to  a 
servant  girl.  We  don't  change.  I've  always  said  it.  We 
don't  change !" 

And  she  looked  from  Craven  to  Lady  Sellingworth. 

Moscovitch  bowed  many  times. 


CHAPTER  II  DECEMBER  LOVE  255 

"Well,  Mr.  Braybrooke,"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  "I've  seen 
some  acting  in  London  to-night  that  I  should  like  to  show  to 
Paris.     Thank  you!" 

She  was  more  beautiful  and  more  human  than  Craven  had 
ever  seen  her  before  in  her  genuine  enthusiasm.  And  he 
thought,  "Great  art  moves  her  as  nothing  else  moves  her." 

"What  do  you  say  about  it,  dearest?"  she  said,  as  Craven 
helped  her  to  put  on  her  cloak. 

(Braybrooke  was  attending  to  Lady  Sellingworth.) 

"It's  a  great  piece  of  acting!" 

"And  horribly  true!     Don't  you  think  so?" 

"I  dare  say  it  is,"  Lady  Sellingworth  answered. 

She  turned  quickly  and  led  the  way  out  of  the  box. 

In  the  hall  they  encountered  the  other  quartet  and  stood 
talking  to  them  for  a  moment,  and  Craven  noticed  how  Miss 
Van  Tuyn  had  been  stirred  up  by  the  play  and  how  silent  Lady 
Sellingworth  was.  He  longed  to  go  back  to  Berkeley  Square 
alone  with  the  latter,  and  to  have  a  long  talk;  but  something 
told  him  to  get  away  from  both  the  white-haired  woman  and 
the  eager  girl.  And  when  the  motor  came  up  he  said  very 
definitely  that  he  had  an  engagement  and  must  find  a  cab. 
Then  he  bade  them  good-bye  and  left  them  in  the  motor  with 
Braybrooke.  As  he  was  turning  away  to  get  out  of  the  crowd 
a  clear,  firm  voice  said  to  him: 

"I  am  so  glad  you  have  performed  the  miracle,  Mr.  Craven." 

He  looked  round  and  saw  Mrs.  Ackroyde's  investigating  eyes 
fixed  upon  him. 

"But  what  miracle?"  he  asked. 

"You  have  pulled  Adela  Sellingworth  out  of  the  shell  in 
which  she  has  been  living  curled  up  for  over  ten  years." 

"Yes.  You  are  a  prodigy!"  said  Lady  Wrackley,  showing 
her  teeth. 

"But  I'm  afraid  I  can't  claim  that  triumph.  I'm  afraid  it's 
due  to  Mr.  Braybrooke's  diplomacy." 

"Oh,    no!"    Mrs.    Ackroyde    said    calmly.     "Adela    would 
never    yield    to    his    cotton-glove    persuasions.     Besides,    his 
diplomacy  would  shy  away  from  Soho." 
"Soho !"  said  Craven,  startled. 
"Yes !" 


266  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

"Oh,  but  Miss  Van  Tuyn  performed  that  miracle!"  said 
Craven,  recovering  himself. 

"I  don't  think  so.  You  are  too  modest.  But  nov/,  mind, 
I  expect  you  to  come  down  to  Coombe  to  lunch  on  the  first 
fine  Sunday,  and  to  bring  Adela  with  you.  Good  night! 
Bobbie,  where  are  you?" 

And  she  followed  Lady  Wrackley  and  the  young  man  with 
the  turned-up  nose  to  a  big  and  shining  motor  which  had  just 
glided  noiselessly  up. 

"Damn  the  women !"  muttered  Craven,  as  he  pushed  through 
the  crowd  into  the  ugly  freedom  of  Shaftesbury  Avenue. 


CHAPTER  III 

MISS  VAN  TUYN  and  the  two  members  of  the  "old 
guard"  went  home  to  bed  that  night  realizing  that  Lady 
Selhngworth  had  had  "things"  done  to  herself  before  she  came 
out  to  the  theatre  party. 

"She's  beginning  again  after — how  many  years  is  it?"  said 
Lady  Wrackley  to  Mrs.  Ackroyde  in  the  motor  as  they  drove 
away  from  the  Shaftesbury. 

"Ten,"  said  Mrs.  Ackroyde,  who  was  blessed  with  a  some- 
times painfully  retentive  memory. 

"I  suppose  it's  Zotos,"  observed  Lady  Wrackley. 

"Who's  Zotos  ?"  inquired  young  Leving  of  the  turned-up  nose 
and  the  larky  expression. 

"A  Greek  who's  a  genius  and  who  lives  in  South  Moulton 
Street." 

"What's  he  do?" 

"Things  that  men  shouldn't  be  allowed  to  know  anything 
about.     Talk  to  Bobbie  for  a  minute,  will  you?" 

She  turned  again  to  Mrs.  Ackroyde. 

"It  must  be  Zotos.  But  even  he  will  be  in  a  difficulty  with 
her  if  she  wants  to  have  very  much  done.  She  made  the 
mistake  of  her  life  when  she  became  an  old  woman.  I  re- 
member saying  at  the  time  that  some  day  she  would  repent  in 
dust  and  ashes  and  want  to  get  back,  and  that  then  it  would 
be  too  late.     How  foolish  she  was !" 

"She  will  be  much  more  foolish  now  if  she  really  begins 
again,"  said  Mrs.  Ackroyde  in  her  cool,  common-sense  way. 

The  young  men  were  talking,  and  after  a  moment  she  con- 
tinued : 

"When  a  thing's  once  been  thoroughly  seen  by  everyone  and 
recognized  for  what  it  is,  it  is  worse  than  useless  to  hide  it 
or  try  to  hide  it.  Adela  should  know  that.  But  I  must  say 
she  looked  remarkably  well  to-night — for  her.  He's  a  good- 
looking  boy." 

257 


258  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

"He  must  be  at  least  twenty-eight  years  younger  than  she  is." 

"More,  probably.  But  she  prefers  them  like  that.  Don't 
you  remember  Rocheouart?  He  was  a  mere  child.  When  we 
gave  our  hop  at  Prince's  she  was  mad  about  him.  And  after- 
wards she  wanted  to  marry  Rupert  Louth.  It  nearly  killed 
her  when  she  found  out  he  had  married  that  awful  girl  who 
called  herself  an  actress.  And  there  was  someone  else  after 
Rupert." 

"I  know.  I  often  wonder  who  it  was.  Someone  we  didn't 
know." 

"Someone  quite  out  of  our  world.  Anyhow,  he  must  have 
broken  her  heart  for  the  time.  And  it's  taken  ten  years  to 
mend.  Do  you  think  that  she  sold  her  jewels  secretly  to  pay 
that  man's  debts,  or  gave  them  to  him,  and  that  then  he  threw 
her  over?     I  have  often  wondered." 

"So  have  we  all.  But  we  shall  never  know.  Adela  is  very 
clever." 

"And  now  it's  another  boy!  And  only  twenty-eight  or  so. 
He  can't  be  more  than  twenty-seven  or  twenty-eight.  Poor 
old  Adela!" 

"Perhaps  he  likes  white  hair.    There  are  boys  who  do." 

"But  not  for  long.     Beryl  was  furious." 

"It  is  hardly  a  compliment  to  her.  I  expect  her  cult  for 
Adela  will  diminish  rapidly." 

"Oh,  she'll  very  soon  get  him  away.  Even  Zotos  won't  be 
able  to  do  very  much  for  Adela  now.  She  burnt  all  her  boats 
ten  years  ago.  Her  case  is  really  hopeless,  and  she'll  very 
soon  find  that  out." 

"Do  you  remember  when  she  tried  to  live  up  to  Rupert 
Louth  as  an  Amazon  ?" 

"Yes.  She  nearly  killed  herself  over  it ;  but  I  must  say  she 
stuck  to  it  splendidly.     She  has  plenty  of  courage." 

"Is  Alick  Craven  athletic?     I  scarcely  know  him." 

"Well,  he's  never  been  a  rough  rider  like  Rupert  Louth; 
but  I  believe  he's  a  sportsman,  does  all  the  usual  things." 

"Then  I  dare  say  we  shall  soon  see  Adela  on  the  links  and 
at  Kings'." 

"Probably.  I'll  get  them  both  down  to  Coombe  and  see  if 
she'll  play  tennis  on  my  hard  court.  I  shouldn't  wonder.  She 
has  pluck  enough  for  anything." 


CHAPTER  in  DECEMBER  LOVE  259 

"Ask  me  that  Sunday.     I  wonder  how  long  it  will  last." 

"Not  long.    It  can't." 

"And  then  she'll  go  crash  again.  It  must  be  awful  to  have 
a  temperament  like  hers." 

"Her  great  mistake  is  that  apparently  she  puts  some  heart 
into  it  every  time.  I  can't  think  how  she  manages  it,  but  she 
does.  Do  you  remember  twelve  years  ago,  when  she  was  crazy 
about  Harry  Blake?     Well " 

But  at  this  moment  the  motor  drew  up  at  the  Carlton,  and  a 
huge  man  in  uniform  opened  the  door. 

Mrs.  Ackroyde  was  right  in  her  comment  on  Miss  Van  Tuyn. 
In  spite  of  Craven's  acting  that  night  Miss  Van  Tuyn  had 
thoroughly  understood  how  things  really  were.  She  had  per- 
suaded Braybrooke  to  invite  Lady  Sellingworth  to  make  a  fourth 
in  order  that  she  might  find  out  whether  any  link  had  been 
forged  between  Craven  and  Lady  Sellingworth,  whether  there 
was  really  any  secret  understanding  between  them,  or  whether 
that  tete-a-tete  dinner  in  Soho  had  been  merely  a  passing 
pleasure,  managed  by  Lady  Sellingworth,  meaning  little,  and 
likely  to  lead  to  nothing.  And  she  had  found  out  that  there 
certainly  was  a  secret  understanding  between  Lady  Selling- 
worth  and  Craven  from  which  she  was  excluded.  Craven  had 
preferred  Adela  Sellingworth  to  herself,  and  Adela  Selling- 
worth  was  fully  aware  of  it. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Miss  Van  Tuyn  that  though  her 
vanity  was  so  great  and  was  now  severely  wounded  she  did 
not  debate  the  matter  within  herself,  did  not  for  a  moment  at- 
tempt to  deceive  herself  about  it.  And  yet  really  she  had  very 
little  ground  to  go  upon.  Craven  had  been  charming  to  her, 
had  replied  to  her  glances,  had  almost  made  love  to  her  at 
dinner,  had  sat  very  close  to  her  during  the  last  act  of  the  play. 
Yes ;  but  it  had  all  been  acting  on  his  part.  Quite  coolly  she 
told  herself  that.  And  Lady  Sellingworth  had  certainly  wished 
him  to  act,  had  even  prompted  him  to  it. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  felt  very  angry  with  Lady  Sellingworth. 
But  she  was  no  less  angry  with  Craven.  Indeed,  she  was  not 
sure  that  she  was  angry  with  him  at  all.  He  was  several  years 
older  than  herself,  but  she  began  to  think  of  him  as  really 
very  young,  as  much  younger  in  mind  and  temperament  than 
she  was.     He  was  only  a  clever  boy,  susceptible  to  flattery, 


260  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

easily  influenced  by  a  determined  will,  and  probably  absurdly 
chivalrous.  She  knew  the  sort  of  chivalry  which  was  a  symp- 
tom really  of  babyhood  in  the  masculine  mind.  It  was  char- 
acteristic of  sensitive  natures,  she  believed,  and  it  often  led 
to  strange  aberrations.  Craven  was  only  a  baby,  although  a 
baby  of  the  world,  and  Adela  Sellingworth  with  her  vast 
experience  had,  of  course,  seen  that  at  a  glance  and  was  now 
busily  playing  upon  baby's  young  chivalry.  Miss  Van  Tuyn 
could  almost  hear  the  talk  about  being  so  lonely  in  the  big 
house  in  Berkeley  Square,  about  the  freedom  of  men  and  the 
difficulty  of  having  any  real  freedom  when  one  is  a  solitary 
woman  with  no  man  to  look  after  you,  about  the  tragedy  of 
being  considered  old  when  your  heart  and  your  nature  are 
really  still  young,  almost  as  young  as  ever  they  were.  Adela 
Sellingworth  would  know  how  to  touch  every  string,  would 
be  an  adept  at  calling  out  the  music  she  wanted.  How  easily 
experienced  women  played  upon  men !  It  was  really  pathetic ! 
And  as  Craven  had  thought  of  protecting  Lady  Sellingworth 
against  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  so  now  Miss  Van  Tuyn  felt  inclined 
to  protect  Alick  Craven  against  Lady  Sellingworth.  She  did 
not  want  to  see  a  nice  and  interesting  boy  make  a  fool  of 
himself.  Yet  Craven  was  on  the  verge  of  doing  that,  if  he 
had  not  already  done  it.  Lady  Wrackley  and  Mrs.  Ackroyde 
had  seen  how  things  were,  had  taken  in  the  whole  situation  in 
a  moment.  Miss  Van  Tuyn  knew  that,  and  in  her  knowledge 
there  was  bitterness.  These  two  women  had  seen  Lady 
Sellingworth  preferred  before  her  by  a  mere  boy,  had  seen  her 
beauty  and  youth  go  for  nothing  beside  a  woman  of  sixty's 
fascination. 

There  must  be  something  quite  extraordinary  in  Craven. 
He  must  be  utterly  unlike  other  young  men.  She  began  to 
wonder  about  him  intensely. 

On  the  following  morning,  as  usual,  she  went  to  Glebe  Place 
to  take  what  she  had  called  her  "lesson"  from  Dick  Garstin. 
She  arrived  rather  early,  a  few  minutes  before  eleven,  and 
found  Garstin  alone,  looking  tired  and  irritable. 

"You  look  as  if  you  had  been  up  all  night,"  she  said  as  he 
let  her  in. 

"So  I  have!" 


CHAPTER  III  DECEMBER  LOVE  261 

She  did /not  ask  him  what  he  had  been  doing.  He  would 
probably  refuse  to  tell  her.     Instead,  she  remarked: 

"Will  you  be  able  to  paint?" 

"Probably  not.     But  perhaps  the  fellow  won't  come." 

"Why    not?     He    always "     She    stopped;    then    said 

quickly,  "So  he  was  up  all  night  too?" 

"Yes." 

"I  didn't  know  you  knew  him  out  of  the  studio," 

"Of  course  I  know  him  wherever  I  meet  him.  What  do 
you  mean?" 

"I  didn't  know  you  did  meet  him." 

Garstin  said  nothing.  She  turned  and  went  up  the  stair- 
case to  the  big  studio.  On  an  easel  nearly  in  the  middle  of 
the  room,  and  not  very  far  from  the  portrait  of  the  judge, 
there  was  a  sketch  of  Nicolas  Arabian's  head,  neck  and  shoul- 
ders. No  collar  or  clothes  were  shown.  Garstin  had  told 
Arabian  flatly  that  he  wasn't  going  to  paint  a  magnificent  torso 
like  his  concealed  by  infernal  linen  and  serge,  and  Arabian  had 
been  quite  willing  that  his  neck  and  shoulders  should  be  painted 
in  the  nude. 

In  the  strong  light  of  the  studio  Garstin's  unusual  appear- 
ance of  fatigue  was  more  noticeable,  and  Miss  Van  Tuyn 
could  not  help  saying: 

"What  on  earth  have  you  been  doing,  Dick?  You  always 
seem  made  of  iron.  But  to-day  you  look  like  an  ordinary  man 
who  has  been  dissipating." 

"I  played  poker  all  night,"  said  Garstin. 

"With  Arabian?" 

"And  two  other  fellows — picked  them  up  at  the  Cafe  Royal." 

"Well,  I  hope  you  won." 

"No,  I  didn't.  Both  Arabian  and  I  lost  a  lot.  We  played 
here." 

"Here !" 

"Yes.  And  I  haven't  had  a  wink  since  they  left.  I  don't 
suppose  he'll  turn  up.  And  if  he  does  I  shan't  be  able  to  do 
anything  at  it." 

He  went  to  stand  in  front  of  the  sketch,  which  was  in  oils, 
and  stared  at  it  with  lack-lustre  eyes. 

"What  d'you  think  of  it  ?"  he  said  at  last. 

Miss    Van    Tuyn    was    rather    surprised    by   the    question. 


262  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

Garstin  was  not  in  the  habit  of  asking  other  people's  opinions 
about  his  work. 

"It's  rather  difficult  to  say,"  she  said,  with  some  hesitation. 

"That  means  you  think  it's  rotten." 

"No.     But  it  isn't  finished  and — I  don't  know." 

"Well,  I  hate  it." 

He  turned  away,  sat  down  on  a  divan,  and  let  his  big" 
knuckly  hands  drop  down  between  his  knees. 

"Fact  is,  I  haven't  got  at  the  fellow's  secret,"  he  said  medi- 
tatively.    "I  got  a  first  impression " 

He  paused. 

"I  know!"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  deeply  interested.  "You 
told  me  what  it  was." 

"The  successful  blackmailer.  Yes.  But  now  I  don't  know. 
I  can't  make  him  out.  He's  the  hardest  nut  to  crack  I  ever 
came  across." 

He  moved  his  long  lips  from  side  to  side  three  or  four  times, 
then  pursed  them  up,  lifted  his  small  eyes,  which  had  been 
staring  between  his  feet  at  a  Persian  rug  on  the  parquet  in 
front  of  the  divan,  looked  at  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  who  was  stand- 
ing before  him,  and  said : 

"That's  why  I  sat  up  all  night  playing  poker  with  him." 

"Ah !"  she  said,  beginning  to  understand. 

She  sat  down  beside  him,  turned  towards  him,  and  said 
eagerly : 

"You  wanted  to  get  really  to  know  him?" 

"Yes;  but  I  didn't.  The  fellow's  an  enigma.  He's  bad. 
And  that's  practically  all  I  know  about  him." 

He  glanced  with  distaste  at  the  sketch  he  had  made. 

"And  it  isn't  enough.  It  isn't  enough  by  a  damned  long 
way." 

"Is  he  a  good  loser?"  she  asked. 

"The  best  I  ever  saw.  Never  turned  a  hair,  and  went  away 
looking  as  fresh  as  a  well-watered  gardenia,  damn  him!" 

"Who  were  the  others  ?" 

"Two  Americans  I've  seen  now  and  then  at  the  Cafe  Royal. 
I  believe  they  live  mostly  in  Paris." 

"Friends  of  his?" 

"I  don't  think  so.     He  said  they  came  and  sat  down  at  his 


CHAPTER  III  DECEMBER  LOVE  263 

table  in  the  cafe  and  started  talking.  I  suggested  the  poker. 
They  didn't.     So  it  wasn't  a  plant." 

"Perhaps  he  isn't  bad,"  she  said;  "and  perhaps  that's  why 
you  can't  paint  him." 

"What  d'you  mean?' 

"I  mean  because  you  have  made  up  your  mind  that  he  is.  I 
think  you  have  a  fixed  idea  about  that." 

"What?" 

"You  have  painted  so  many  brutes,  that  you  seek  for  the 
brute  in  everyone  who  sits  to  you.  If  you  were  to  paint  me 
you'd " 

"Now,  now !  There  you  are  at  it  again !  I'll  paint  you  if 
I  ever  feel  like  it — not  a  minute  before." 

"I  was  only  going  to  say  that  if  you  ever  painted  me  you'd 
try  to  find  something  horrible  in  me  that  you  could  drag  to  the 
surface." 

"Well,  d'you  mean  that  you  have  the  toupet  to  tell  me  there 
is  nothing  horrible  in  you?" 

"Now  we  are  getting  away  from  Arabian,"  she  said,  with 
cool  self-possession. 

"Owing  to  your  infernal  egoism,  my  girl!" 

"Override  it,  then,  with  your  equally  infernal  altruism,  my 
boy!" 

Garstin  smiled,  and  for  a  moment  looked  a  little  less  fatigued, 
but  in  a  moment  his  almost  morose  preoccupation  returned. 
He  glanced  again  towards  the  sketch. 

"I  should  like  to  slit  it  up  with  a  palette  knife!"  he  said. 
"The  devil  of  it  is  that  I  felt  I  could  do  a  really  great  thing 
with  that  fellow.  I  struck  out  a  fine  phrase  that  night.  D'you 
remember  ?" 

"Yes.     You  called  him  a  king  in  the  underworld." 

Abruptly  he  got  up  and  began  to  walk  about  the  studio, 
stopping  now  here,  now  there,  before  his  portraits.  He  paused 
for  quite  a  long  time  before  the  portraits  of  Cora  and  the  judge. 
Then  he  came  back  to  the  sketch  of  Arabian. 

"You  must  help  me !"  he  said  at  last. 

"I!"  she  exclaimed,  with  almost  sharp  surprise.  "How 
can  I  help  you?" 

He  turned,  and  she  saw  the  pin-points  of  light. 


S64  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  fellow?"  he  said.  "After  all, 
you  asked  me  to  paint  him.     What  do  you  think  of  him?" 

"I  think  he's  magnificently  handsome." 

"Blast  his  envelope!"  Garstin  almost  roared  out.  "What 
do  you  think  of  his  nature  ?  What  do  you  think  of  his  soul  ? 
I'm  not  a  painter  of  surfaces." 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  sat  for  a  moment  looking  steadily  at  him. 
She  was  unusually  natural  and  unself-conscious,  like  one 
thinking  too  strongly  to  bother  about  herself.  At  last  she 
said: 

"Arabian  is  a  very  difficult  man  to  understand,  and  I  don't 
understand  him." 

"Do  you  like  him  ?" 

"I  couldn't  exactly  say  that." 

"Do  you  hate  him?" 

"No." 

Garstin  suddenly  looked  almost  maliciously  sly. 

"I  can  tell  you  something  that  you  feel  about  him." 

"What?" 

"You  are  afraid  of  him." 

Miss  Van  Tuyn's  silky  fair  skin  reddened. 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  anyone,"  she  retorted.  "If  I  have  one 
virtue,  I  think  it's  courage." 

"You're  certainly  not  a  Miss  Nancy  as  a  rule.  In  fact, 
your  cheek  is  pretty  well  known  in  Paris.  But  you're  afraid 
of  Arabian." 

"Am  I  really?"  said  the  girl,  recovering  from  her  surprise 
and  facing  him  hardily.     "And  how  have  you  found  that  out?" 

"You  took  a  fancy  to  the  fellow  the  first  time  you  saw  him." 

"I  did  not  take  a  fancy.    I  am  not  an  under-housemaid." 

"There's  not  really  a  particle  of  difference  between  an  under- 
housemaid  and  a  super-lady  when  it  comes  to  a  good-looking 
man." 

"Dick,  you're  a  great  painter,  but  you're  also  a  great  vul- 
garian !" 

"Well,  my  father  was  a  national  schoolmaster  and  my  mother 
was  a  butcher's  daughter.  I  can't  help  my  vernacular.  You 
took  a  fancy  to  this  fellow  in  the  Cafe  Royal,  and  you  begged 
me  to  paint  him  so  that  you  might  get  to  know  him.  I  obeyed 
you " 


CHAPTER  III  DECEMBER  LOVE  265 

"The  heavens  will  certainly  fall  before  you  become  obedient." 

" and  asked  him  here.     Then  I  asked  you.     You  came. 

He  came.  I  started  painting.  How  many  sittings  have  I 
had?" 

"Three." 

"Then  you've  met  him  here  four  times  ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  why  have  you  always  let  him  go  away  alone  from  the 
studio  ?" 

"Why  should  I  go  with  him  ?  I  much  prefer  to  stay  on  here 
and  have  a  talk  with  you.  You  are  far  more  interesting  than 
Arabian  is.  He  says  very  little.  Probably  he  knows  very 
little.     I  can  learn  from  you." 

"That's  all  very  well.  I  will  say  you're  damned  keen  on 
acquiring  knowledge.  But  Arabian  interests  you  in  a  way  I 
certainly  don't ;  in  a  sex  way." 

"That'll  do,  Dick!" 

"And  directly  a  woman  gets  to  that  all  the  lumber  of  knowl- 
edge can  go  to  the  devil  for  her!  When  Nature  drives  the 
coach  brain  interests  occupy  the  back  seat.  That  is  a  rule 
with  women  to  which  I've  never  yet  found  an  exception. 
Every  day  you're  longing  to  go  away  from  here  with  Arabian ; 
every  day  he  does  his  level  best  to  get  you  to  go.  Yet  you 
don't  go.  Why's  that?  You're  held  back  by  fear.  You're 
afraid  of  the  fellow,  my  girl,  and  it's  not  a  bit  of  use  your 
denying  it.  When  I  see  a  thing  I  see  it — it's  there.  I  don't 
deal  in  hallucinations." 

All  this  time  his  small  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her,  and  the 
fierce  little  lights  in  them  seemed  to  touch  her  like  the  points 
of  two  pins. 

"You  talk  about  fear!  Does  it  never  occur  to  you  that 
Arabian's  a  man  you  picked  up  at  the  Cafe  Royal,  that  we 
neither  of  us  know  anything  about  him,  that  he  may  be " 

"Anyhow,  he's  far  more  presentable  than  I  am." 

"Of  course  he's  presentable,  as  you  call  it.  He's  very  well 
dressed  and  very  good-looking,  but  still " 

At  that  moment  she  thought  of  Craven,  and  in  her  mind 
quickly  compared  the  two  men. 

"But  still  you're  afraid  of  him.  Where  is  your  frankness? 
Why  don't  you  acknowledge  what  I  already  know?" 


266  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  looked  down  and  sat  for  a  moment  quite 
still  without  speaking.  Then  she  began  to  take  off  her  gloves. 
Finally,  she  lifted  her  hands  to  her  head,  took  off  her  hat,  and 
laid  it  on  the  divan  beside  her. 

"It  isn't  that  I  am  afraid  of  Arabian,"  she  then  said,  at  last 
looking  up.  "But  the  fact  is  I  am  like  you.  I  don't  under- 
stand him.  I  can't  place  him.  I  don't  even  know  what  his 
nationality  is.  He  knows  nobody  I  do.  I  feel  certain  of 
that.  Yet  he  must  belong  somewhere,  have  some  set  of  friends, 
some  circle  of  acquaintances,  I  suppose.  He  isn't  at  all  vulgar. 
One  couldn't  call  him  genteel,  which  is  worse,  I  think.  It's  all 
very  odd.  I'm  not  conventional.  In  Paris  I'm  considered 
even  terribly  unconventional.  I've  met  all  sorts  of  men,  but 
I've  never  met  a  man  like  Arabian.  But  the  other  day — don't 
you  remember? — you  summed  him  up.  You  said  he  had  no 
education,  no  knowledge,  no  love  of  art  or  literature,  that  he 
was  clever,  sensual,  idle,  acquisitive,  made  of  iron,  with  nerves 
of  steel.     Don't  you  remember?" 

"To  be  sure  I  do." 

"Isn't  that  enough  to  go  upon?" 

"For  the  painting?  No,  it  isn't.  Besides,  you  said  you 
weren't  sure  I  was  right  in  my  diagnosis  of  the  chap's  char- 
acter and  physical  part." 

"I  wasn't  sure,  and  I'm  not  sure  now." 

"Tell  me  God's  own  truth,  Beryl.    Come  on !" 

He  came  up  to  her,  put  one  hand  on  her  left  shoulder,  and 
looked  down  into  her  eyes, 

"Aren't  you  a  bit  afraid  of  the  fellow?" 

She  met  his  eyes  steadily. 

"There's  something "     She  paused. 

"Go  ahead,  I  tell  you !" 

"I  couldn't  describe  it.  It's  more  like  an  atmosphere  than 
anything  else.  It  seems  to  hang  about  him.  I've  never  felt 
anything  quite  like  it  when  I've  been  with  anyone  else." 

"An  atmosphere !     Now  we're  getting  at  it." 

He  took  his  heavy  hand  away  from  her  shoulder. 

"A  woman  feels  that  sort  of  thing  more  sensitively  than  a 
man  does.     Sex !     Go  on !     What  about  it  ?" 

"But  I  scarcely  know  what  I  mean — really,  Dick.  No !  But 
it's — it's  an  unsafe  atmosphere." 


CHAPTER  III  DECEMBER  LOVE  267 

"Ah !" 

"One  doesn't  know  where  one  is  in  it.  At  least,  I  don't. 
Once  in  LxDndon  I  was  lost  for  a  little  while  in  Regents  Park 
in  a  fog.  It's — it's  something  like  that.  I  couldn't  see  the 
way,  and  I  heard  steps  and  voices  that  sounded  strange  and — I 
don't  know." 

"Find  out!" 

"That's  all  very  well.  You  are  terribly  selfish,  Dick.  You 
don't  care  what  happens  so  long  as  you  can  paint  as  you  wish 
to  paint.     You'd  sacrifice  me,  anyone " 

The  girl  seemed  strangely  uneasy.  Her  usual  coolness  had 
left  her.  The  hot  blood  had  come  back  to  her  cheeks  and 
glowed  there  in  uneven  patches  of  red.  Garstin  gazed  at  her 
with  profound  and  cruel  interest. 

"Sacrifice !"  he  said.  "Who  talked  of  sacrificing  you?  Who 
wishes  to  sacrifice  you?     I  only  want " 

"One  doesn't  know — with  a  man  like  that  one  doesn't  know 
"where  it  would  lead  to." 

"Then  you  think  he's  a  thundering  blackguard?  And  yet 
you  defended  him  just  now,  said  perhaps  I  couldn't  paint  him 
just  because  I'd  made  up  my  mind  he  was  a  brute.  You're  a 
mass  of  contradictions." 

"I  don't  say  he's  bad.    He  may  not  be  bad." 

"Fact  is,  as  I  said,  you're  in  a  mortal  funk  of  him." 

"I  am  not !"  she  said,  with  sudden  anger.  "No  one  shall  say 
I'm  afraid  of  any  man.  You  can  ask  anyone  who  knows  me 
really  well,  and  you  will  always  hear  the  same  story.  I'm 
afraid  of  no  one  and  nothing,  and  I've  proved  it  again  and 
again." 

"Well  then,  what's  to  prevent  you  proving  it  to  me,  my  girl  ?" 

"I  will!" 

She  lifted  her  chin  and  looked  suddenly  impudent. 

"What  do  you  wish  me  to  do  to  prove  it?"  she  asked  him 
defiantly. 

"If  Arabian  does  come  to-day  go  away  with  him  when  he 
goes.  Get  to  know  him  really.  You  could,  I  believe.  But 
ever  since  he's  come  here  to  sit  he  has  shut  up  the  box  which 
contains  the  truth  of  what  he  is,  locked  it,  and  lost  the  key. 
His  face  is  a  mask,  and  I  don't  paint  masks." 

"Very  well.     I  will." 


268  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

"Good !"  said  Garstin  sonorously,  and  looking  suddenly  much 
less  tired  and  morose. 

"But  why  do  you  think  /  could  get  to  know  him?" 

"Because  he's — but  you  know  why  better  than  I  do." 

"I  don't." 

"Arabian's  in  love  with  you,  my  girl.     By  Jove !  there  he  is !" 

The  bell  had  sounded  below. 

With  a  swift  movement  Garstin  got  hold  of  a  palette  knife, 
sprang  at  the  sketch  of  Arabian,  and  ripped  up  the  canvas 
from  top  to  bottom.     Miss  Van  Tuyn  uttered  a  cry. 

"Dick !" 

"That's  all  right!" 

He  threw  the  knife  down. 

"We'll  do  better  than  that  by  a  long  way." 

He  got  hold  of  her  hand. 

"Stick  to  your  word,  my  girl,  and  I'll  paint  you  yet — and 
not  an  Academy  portrait.  But  you've  got  to  live.  Just  now, 
with  your  cheeks  all  in  patches  you  looked  stunning." 

The  bell  went  again. 

"Now  for  him !" 

He  hurried  downstairs. 


CHAPTER  IV 

LADY  SELLINGWORTH  was  afraid.  In  spite  of  her 
many  triumphs  in  the  past  she  had  a  deep  distrust  of  life. 
Since  the  tragedies  of  her  middle  age  her  curious  natural  diffi- 
dence, which  the  habit  of  the  world  had  never  been  able  to 
subdue,  had  increased.  In  ten  years  of  retirement,  in  the 
hundreds  of  hours  of  solitude  which  those  ten  years  had  held 
for  her,  it  had  grown  within  her.  And  now  it  began  to 
torment  her. 

Life  brings  some  gifts  to  almost  everyone,  and  often  the 
gift-bearer's  approach  is  absolutely  unexpected.  So  it  had 
been  in  Lady  Sellingworth's  case.  She  had  had  no  premoni- 
tion that  a  change  was  preparing  for  her.  Nothing  had 
warned  her  to  be  on  the  alert  when  young  feet  turned  into 
Berkeley  Square  on  a  certain  Sunday  in  autumn  and  made 
towards  her  door.  Abruptly,  after  years  of  neglect,  it  seemed 
as  if  life  suddenly  remembered  that  there  was  a  middle-aged 
woman,  with  lungs  which  still  mechanically  did  their  work, 
and  a  heart  which  still  obstinately  persisted  in  beating,  living 
in  Berkeley  Square,  and  that  scarcely  a  bare  bone  had  been 
thrown  to  her  for  some  thousands  of  days.  And  then  life 
brought  her  Craven,  with  an  unusual  nature,  with  a  surely 
romantic  mind,  with  a  chivalrous  sense  that  was  out  of  the 
fashion,  with  faculties  making  for  friendship ;  life  offered,  or 
seemed  to  offer  her  Craven,  to  whisper  in  her  ear,  "You  have 
been  starving  alone  for  a  long  time.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  had 
forgotten  all  about  you.  I  did  not  remember  you  were  there. 
I  don't  quite  know  why  you  persist  in  being  there.  But,  as 
you  do,  and  as  you  are  wearing  thin  for  want  of  sustenance, 
here  is  something  for  you !" 

And  now,  because  of  what  life  had  done.  Lady  Sellingworth 
was  afraid.  When  she  had  parted  from  her  friends  after  the 
theatre  party,  and  was  once  more  alone  in  her  big  house,  she 
knew  thoroughly,  absolutely ,>  for  the  first  time  what  life  had 
done. 

269 


270  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

All  the  calm,  the  long  calm  of  her  years  of  retirement  from 
the  world,  had  gone.  She  now  knew  how  strangely  safe  she 
had  felt  in  her  loneliness.  She  had  felt  surely  something  of 
the  safety  of  a  nun  of  one  of  the  enclosed  orders.  In  her 
solitude  she  had  learnt  to  understand  how  dangerous  the  great 
world  is,  how  full  of  trials  for  the  nerves,  the  temper,  the  flesh, 
the  heart.  The  woman  who  goes  into  it  needs  to  be  armed. 
For  many  weapons  thrust  at  her.  She  must  be  perpetually  on 
the  alert,  ready  to  hold  her  own  among  the  attacking  eyes  and 
tongues.  And  she  must  not  be  tired,  or  dull,  or  sad,  must 
not  show,  or  follow,  her  varying  moods,  must  not  quietly  rest 
in  sincerity.  When  she  had  lived  in  the  world  Lady  Selling- 
worth  had  scarcely  realized  all  this.  But  in  her  long  retire- 
ment she  had  come  fully  to  realize  it.  There  had  been  a 
strange  and  embracing  sense  of  safety  permeating  her  solitary 
life.  She  had  got  up  in  the  morning,  she  had  gone  to  bed  at 
night,  feeling  safe.  For  the  storms  of  the  passions  were 
stilled,  and  though  desire  might  stir  sometimes,  it  soon  slept 
again.  For  she  never  took  her  desire  into  danger.  She  did 
not  risk  the  temptations  of  the  world. 

But  now  all  the  old  restlessness,  all  the  old  anxiety  and 
furtive  uneasiness  of  the  mind,  had  returned.  She  was  again 
what  she  had  often  been  more  than  ten  years  ago — a  woman 
tormented.  And — for  she  knew  herself  now — she  knew  what 
was  in  store  for  her  if  she  gave  herself  again  to  life  and  her 
own  inclinations. 

For  it  had  all  come  back ;  the  old  greedy  love  of  sympathy 
and  admiration,  the  old  worship  of  strength  and  youth  and 
hot  blood  and  good  looks,  the  old  longing  for  desire  and  love, 
the  old  almost  irritable  passion  to  possess,  to  dominate,  to  be 
first,  to  submerge  another  human  being  in  her  own  personality. 

After  ten  years  she  was  in  love  again,  desperately  in  love. 
But  she  was  an  elderly  woman  now,  so  elderly  that  many 
people  would  no  doubt  think  that  it  was  impossible  that  she 
should  be  in  love.  How  little  such  people  knew  about  human 
nature!  The  evening  had  been  almost  as  wonderful  and  as 
exciting  to  her  as  it  could  have  ^been  to  a  girl.  When  she 
had  come  into  the  hall  of  the  Carlton  and  had  seen  Craven 
through  the  glass,  had  seen  his  tall  figure,  smooth,  dark  hair, 
and  animated  face  glowing  with  health  after  the  breezes  and 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  271 

sunrays  of  Beaconsfield,  she  had  known  a  feeling  that  a  girl 
might  have  understood  and  shared. 

And  she  was  sixty ! 

What  was  to  be  done? 

Craven  was  certainly  fond  of  her  already.  Quietly  she  had' 
triumphed  that  night.  Three  women  had  seen  and  had  quite 
understood  her  little  triumph.  Probably  all  of  them  had  won- 
dered about  it,  had  been  secretly  irritated  by  it.  Certainly 
Beryl  had  been  very  much  irritated.  But  in  spite  of  that 
triumph,  Lady  Sellingworth  felt  almost  desperately  afraid 
that  night  when  she  was  alone.  For  she  knew  how  great  the 
difference  was  between  her  feeling  for  Craven  and  his  feeling 
for  her.  And  with  greater  intimacy  that  difference,  she  felt 
sure,  must  even  increase.  For  she  would  want  from  him  what 
he  would  never  want  or  even  dream  of  wanting,  from  her. 
He  would  be  satisfied  in  their  friendship  while  she  would  be 
almost  starving.  He  would  never  know  that  cruel  longing  to 
touch  which  marks  the  difference  between  what  is  love  and 
what  is  friendship. 

If  she  now  let  herself  go,  took  no  drastic  step,  just  let  life 
carry  her  on,  she  could  have  a  strange  and  unusual,  and,  in  its 
way,  beautiful  friendship,  a  friendship  which  to  a  woman  with 
a  different  nature  from  hers  might  seem  perfect.  She  could 
have  that — and  what  would  it  be  to  her  ? 

She  longed  to  lay  violent  hands  on  herself;  she  longed  to 
tear  something  that  was  an  essential  part  of  her  to  pieces,  to 
scatter  it  to  a  wind,  and  let  the  wind  whirl  it  away. 

She  knelt  down  that  night  before  getting  into  bed,and  prayed. 
And  when  she  did  that  she  thought  of  Sellingworth  and  of  his 
teachings  and  opinions.  How  he  would  have  laughed  at  her 
if  he  had  ever  seen  her  do  that!  She  had  not  wanted  to  do 
it  in  the  years  when  she  had  been  with  him.  But  now,  if  his 
opinions  had  been  well  founded,  he  was  only  dust  and  perhaps 
a  few  fragments  of  bone.  He  could  not  laugh  at  her  now. 
And  she  felt  a  really  desperate  need  of  prayer. 

She  did  not  pray  to  have  something  that  she  wanted.  She 
knew  that  would  be  no  use.  Even  if  there  were  a  God  who 
attended  to  individuals,  he  would  certainly  not  give  her  what 
she  wanted  just  then.  To  do  so  would  be  deliberately  to  inter- 
fere with  the  natural  course  of  things,  arbitrarily  to  change  the 


272  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

design.  And  something  in  Lady  Sellingworth's  brain  pre- 
vented her  from  being  able  even  for  a  moment  to  think  that 
God  would  ever  do  that.  She  prayed,  therefore,  that  she  might 
cease  to  want  what  she  wanted ;  she  prayed  that  she  might  have 
strength  to  do  a  tremendously  courageous  thing  quickly;  she 
prayed  that  she  might  be  rewarded  for  doing  it  by  afterwards 
having  physical  and  mental  peace;  she  prayed  that  she  might 
be  permanently  changed,  that  she  might,  after  this  last  trial, 
be  allowed  to  become  passionless,  that  what  remained  of  the 
fiercely  animal  in  her  might  die  out,  that  she  might  henceforth 
be  as  old  in  nature  as  she  already  was  in  body.  "For,"  she 
said  to  herself,  "only  in  that  oldness  lies  safety  for  me!  Un- 
less I  can  be  all  old — mind  and  nature,  as  well  as  body — I  shall 
suffer  horribly  again." 

She  prayed  that  she  might  feel  old,  so  old  that  she  might 
cease  from  being  attracted  by  youth,  from  longing  after  youth 
in  this  dreadful  tormenting  way. 

When  she  got  up  from  her  knees  it  was  one  o'clock.  She 
took  two  tablets  of  aspirin  and  got  into  bed.  And  directly 
she  was  in  bed  an  idea  seemed  to  hit  her  mind,  and  she 
trembled  slightly,  as  if  she  had  really  received  a  blow.  She 
had  just  been  praying  for  something  earnestly,  almost  violently, 
and  she  had  prayed  with  clear  understanding,  with  the  under- 
standing that  a  long  and  fully  lived  life  brings  to  every  really 
intelligent  human  being.  Did  she  really  want  her  prayer  to 
be  answered,  or  had  she  been  trying  to  humbug  herself?  She 
had  thought  of  a  test  which  would  surely  prove  whether  she 
was  genuine  in  her  desire  to  escape  from  the  torment  that  was 
lying  in  wait  for  her  or  not.  Instead  of  receiving  a  visit  from 
her  Greek  to-morrow,  instead  of  being  at  home  to  Craven  in 
the  late  afternoon,  instead  of  giving  herself  up  to  the  lure 
which  must,  she  knew,  certainly  lead  her  on  to  emotional  de- 
struction, she  might  do  this :  she  might  telephone  to  Sir 
Seymour  Portman  to  come  to  her  and  tell  him  that  she  would 
reward  his  long  faithfulness. 

It  would  be  a  way  out.  If  she  could  bring  herself  to  do 
it  she  would  make  herself  safe.  For  though  Seymour  Portman 
had  been  so  faithful,  and  she  had  never  rewarded  him,  he  was 
not  a  man  any  woman  would  dare  to  play  with.  Lady  Selling- 
worth  knew  that  she  would  never  break  a  promise  to  him. 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  273 

would  never  play  fast  and  loose  with  him.  He  was  strong  and 
he  was  true,  and  he  had  very  high  ideals  and  an  almost  stern 
code  of  honour.  In  accepting  him  as  her  husband  she  would 
shut  a  door  of  steel  between  herself  and  her  past,  with  its 
sins  and  its  many  follies.  She  would  begin  again,  as  an  old 
woman  with  a  devoted  husband  who  would  know — none  better 
— how  to  make  himself  respected,  how  to  hold  by  his  rights. 

People  might  smile  at  such  a  marriage,  but  it  would  be  abso- 
lutely suitable.  Seymour  was  a  few  years  older  than  she  was. 
But  he  was  still  strong  and  upright,  could  still  sit  a  horse  as 
well  as  any  man,  still  had  a  steady  hand  with  his  gun.  He 
was  not  a  ruin.  She  would  be  able  to  rest  on  him.  A  more 
perfect  support  for  a  woman  than  Seymour,  if  he  loved,  was 
surely  never  created.  He  was  a  gentleman  to  the  core,  and 
totally  incapable  of  insincerity.  He  was  fearless.  He  be- 
longed to  her  world.  He  was  persona  grata  at  Court  and  in 
society.  And  he  loved  her  in  that  extraordinary  and  very  rare 
way — as  the  one  woman.  All  he  needed  in  a  woman  quite 
evidently  he  found  in  her.  How  ?  Why  ?  She  did  not  know, 
could  not  understand.  But  so  it  was.  She  would  absolutely 
satisfy  his  desires. 

The  aspirin  was  stilling  her  nerves.  She  lay  without  mov- 
ing. Had  she  been  a  humbug  when  she  prayed?  Had  she 
prayed  knowing  quite  well  that  her  prayer  was  not  going  to 
be  answered,  not  intending,  or  wishing,  really,  that  it  should 
be  answered?  Had  she  prayed  without  any  belief  in  a  Being 
who  had  the  power  and  probably  the  will  to  give  her  what  she 
asked  for?  Would  she  have  prayed  at  all  had  she  been  sure 
that  if  she  offered  up  a  petition  to  be  made  old  in  nature  as 
well  as  in  body  it  would  certainly  be  granted? 

"I  don't  know!     I  don't  know!"  she  whispered  to  herself. 

The  darkness  of  the  big  room  suddenly  seemed  very  strange. 
And  she  thought  how  odd  it  was  that  human  beings  need  in 
every  twenty-four  hours  a  long  period  of  blackness,  that  they 
make  blackness  by  turning  out  light,  and  stretch  themselves 
out  in  it  as  if  getting  ready  for  burial. 

"Burial !  If  I'm  not  a  humbug,  if  really  I  wish  for  peace, 
to-morrow  I  shall  send  for  Seymour,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"Through  him  I  can  get  peace  of  mind.  He  will  protect  me 
against  myself,  without  even  knowing  that  he  is  doing  it.     I 


274  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

have  only  to  speak  a  sentence  to  him  and  all  possibility  of 
•danger,  torment  and  wildness  will  be  over  for  ever." 

And  then  she  thought  of  the  safety  of  a  prison.  But  any- 
thing was  surely  better  than  misery  of  mind  and  body,  than 
wanting  terribly  from  someone  what  he  never  wants  to  give 
you,  what  he  never  wants  from  you. 

Torment  in  freedom,  or  stagnant  peace  in  captivity  behind 
the  prison  door — which  was  the  more  desirable?  Craven's 
voice  through  the  telephone — their  conversation  about  Waring 
— Seymour's  long  faithfulness — if  he  were  here  now!  How 
would  it  be  ?     And  if  Craven No !     No ! 

Another  tablet  of  aspirin — and  sleep ! 

Lady  Sellingworth  did  not  pray  the  next  morning.  But  she 
telephoned  to  Seymour  Portman,  and  said  she  would  be  at 
home  about  five  in  the  afternoon  if  he  cared  for  an  hour's  talk. 
She  gave  no  hint  that  she  had  any  special  reason  for  asking 
him  to  come.  If  he  only  knew  what  was  in  her  mind!  His 
firm,  quiet,  soldier's  voice  replie'd  through  the  telephone  that 
of  course  he  would  come.  Somehow  she  guessed  that  he  had 
had  an  engagement  and  was  going  to  give  it  up  for  her.  What 
would  he  not  give  up  for  her?  And  yet  he  was  a  man  accus- 
tomed to  command,  and  to  whom  authority  was  natural.  But 
he  was  also  accustomed  to  obey.  He  was  the  perfect  courtier, 
devoted  to  the  monarchy,  yet  absolutely  free  from  the  slave 
instinct.  Good  kings  trust  such  men.  Many  women  love 
them. 

"Why  not  I?"  Lady  Sellingworth  thought  that  day. 

And  it  seemed  to  her  that  perhaps  even  love  might  be  sub- 
ject to  will  power,  that  a  determined  effort  of  will  might 
bring  it  or  banish  it.  She  had  never  really  tested  her  will  in 
that  way  in  connexion  with  love.  But  the  time  had  come  for 
the  test  to  be  made. 

"Perhaps  I  can  love  Seymour!"  she  said  to  herself.  "Per- 
haps I  could  have  loved  him  years  ago  if  I  had  chosen.  Per- 
haps I  have  only  to  use  my  will  to  be  happy  with  him.  I  have 
never  controlled  my  impulses.  That  has  been  my  curse  and 
the  cause  of  all  my  miseries." 

At  that  moment  she  entirely  forgot  the  ten  years  of  self- 
control  which  were  behind  her.  The  sudden  return  to  her 
former  self  had  apparently  blotted  them  out  from  her  memory. 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  275 

After  telephoning  to  Seymour  Portman  she  wrote  a  little  note 
to  Craven  and  sent  it  round  to  the  Foreign  Office.  In  the  notd 
she  explained  briefly  that  she  was  not  able  to  see  him  that 
afternoon  as  had  been  arranged  between  them.  The  wording 
of  the  note  was  cold.  She  could  not  help  that.  She  wrote  it 
under  the  influence  of  what  she  thought  of  just  then  as  a 
decision.  If  she  did  what  she  believed  she  intended  to  do  that 
afternoon  she  would  have  to  be  cold  to  Craven  in  the  future. 
With  her  temperament  it  would  be  impossible  to  continue  her 
friendship  with  Craven  if  she  were  going  to  marry  Sir 
Seymour.  She  knew  that.  But  she  did  not  know  how  frigid, 
how  almost  brusque,  her  note  to  Craven  was. 

When  he  read  it  he  felt  as  if  he  had  received  a  cold  douche. 
It  startled  him  and  hurt  him,  hurt  his  youthful  sensitiveness 
and  pride.  And  he  wondered  very  much  why  Lady  Selling- 
worth  had  written  it,  and  what  had  happened  to  make  her  write 
to  him  like  that.  She  did  not  even  ask  him  to  call  on  her  at 
some  other  time  on  some  other  day.  And  it  had  been  she  who 
had  suggested  a  cosy  talk  that  afternoon.  She  had  been  going 
to  show  him  a  book  of  poems  by  a  young  American  poet  in 
whose  work  she  was  interested.  And  they  would  have  talked 
over  the  little  events  of  the  preceding  evening,  have  discussed 
Moscovitch,  the  play,  the  persistence  of  love,  youth,  age,  every- 
thing under  the  sun. 

Craven  was  severely  disappointed.  He  even  felt  rather 
angry  and  hurt.  Something  in  him  was  up  in  arms,  but  some- 
thing else  was  distressed  and  anxious.  It  was  extraordinary 
how  already  he  had  come  to  depend  upon  Lady  Sellingworth. 
His  mother  was  dead.  He  certainly  did  not  think  of  Lady 
Sellingworth  as  what  is  sometimes  called  "a  second  mother." 
There  was  nothing  maternal  about  her,  and  he  was  fully  aware 
of  that.  Besides,  she  did  not  fascinate  him  in  the  motherly 
way.  No ;  but  owing  to  the  great  diflFerence  in  their  ages  he 
felt  that  he  could  talk  to  her  as  he  could  talk  to  nobody  else. 
For  he  was  in  no  intimate  relation  with  any  other  woman  so 
much  older  than  himself.  And  to  young  women  somehow  one 
can  never  talk  so  freely,  so  companionably.  Even  in  these 
modern  days  sex  gets  in  the  way.  Craven  told  himself  that 
as  he  folded  up  Lady  Sellingworth's  letter.  She  was  different. 
He  had  felt  that  for  him  there  was  quite  a  beautiful  refuge  in 


276  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

Berkeley  Square.  And  now !  What  could  have  happened  ? 
She  must  surely  be  vexed  about  something  he  had  done,  or 
about  something  which  had  occurred  on  the  previous  evening. 
And  he  thought  about  the  evening  carefully  and  minutely. 
Had  she  perhaps  been  upset  by  Lady  Wrackley  and  Mrs. 
Ackroyde?  Was  she  ^elf-conscious  as  he  was,  and  had  she 
observed  their  concentration  upon  herself  and  him?  Or,  on 
the  other  hand,  could  she  have  misunderstood  his  manner  with 
Miss  Van  Tuyn?  He  knew  how  very  sensitive  women  are 
about  each  other.  And  Lady  Sellingworth,  of  course,  was  old, 
although  he  never  bothered,  and  seldom  thought,  about  her 
age.  Elderly  women  were  probably  in  certain  ways  even  more 
sensitive  than  young  women.  He  could  well  understand  that. 
And  he  certainly  had  rather  made  love  to  Miss  Van  Tuyn 
because  of  the  horribly  observing  eyes  of  the  "old  guard." 
And  then,  too,  Miss  Van  Tuyn  had  finally  almost  required  it 
of  him.  Had  she  not  told  him  that  she  had  insisted  on  Lady 
Sellingworth's  being  asked  to  the  theatre  to  entertain  Bray- 
brooke  so  that  Craven  and  she,  the  young  ones,  might  have  a 
nice  little  time?  After  that  what  could  he  do  but  his  duty? 
But  perhaps  Lady  Sellingworth  had  not  understood.  He  won- 
dered, and  felt  now  hurt  and  angry,  now  almost  contrite  and 
inclined  to  be  explanatory. 

When  he  left  the  Foreign  Office  that  day  and  was  crossing 
the  Mall  he  was  very  depressed.  A  breath  of  winter  was  in 
the  air.  There  was  a  bank  of  clouds  over  Buckingham  Palace, 
with  the  red  sun  smouldering  just  behind  their  edges.  The 
sky,  as  it  sometimes  does,  held  tenderness,  anger  and  romance, 
and  was  full  of  lures  for  the  imagination  and  the  soul.  Craven 
looked  at  it  as  he  walked  on  with  a  colleague,  a  man  called 
Marshall,  older  than  himself,  who  had  just  come  back  from 
Japan,  and  was  momentarily  translated.  He  voyaged  among 
the  clouds,  and  was  carried  away  across  that  cold  primrose 
and  delicate  green;  and  his  journey  was  into  the  ineffable,  and 
beyond  the  rim  of  the  horizon  towards  the  satisfaction  of  the 
unexpressed,  because  inexpressible,  desires.  And  Marshall 
talked  about  Japanese  art  and  presently  about  geishas,  not  stu- 
pidly, but  with  understanding.  And  Craven  thought:  "If  only 
I  were  going  to  Berkeley  Square !"  He  had  come  down  to 
earth,  but  in  the  condition  which  yearns  for  an  understanding 


cHAPTKR  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  277 

mind.  Lady  Sellingworth  understood  him.  But  now — he  did 
not  know.  And  he  went  with  Marshall  drearily  to  the  St. 
James's  Club  and  went  on  hearing  about  geishas  and  Japanese 
art. 

The  bell  sounded  in  Berkeley  Square,  and  a  footman  let  in 
Sir  Seymour  Portman,  who  was  entirely  unconscious  that 
Fate  had  been  working  apparently  with  a  view  to  the  satisfac- 
tion of  his  greatest  desire.  He  had  long  ago  given  up  hope 
of  being  Adela  Sellingworth's  husband.  Twice  that  hope  had 
died — when  she  had  married  Lord  Manham,  and  when  she  had 
married  Sellingworth.  Adela  could  not  care  for  him  in  that 
way.  But  now  for  many  years  she  had  remained  unmarried, 
had  joined  him,  as  it  were,  in  the  condition  of  being  lonely. 
That  fact  had  helped  him  along  the  road.  He  could  go  to  her 
and  feel  that  he  was  in  a  certain  degree  wanted.  That  was 
something,  even  a  good  deal,  in  the  old  courtier's  life.  He 
valued  greatly  the  welcome  of  the  woman  whom  he  still  loved 
with  an  undeviating  fidelity.  He  was  thankful,  selfishly,  no 
doubt — he  often  said  so  to  himself — for  her  loneliness,  because 
he  believed  himself  able  to  cheer  it  and  to  alleviate  it.  And 
at  last  he  had  ceased  to  dread  any  change  in  her  way  of  life. 
His  Adela  had  evidently  at  last  "settled  down."  Her  vivacious 
temperament,  her  almost  greedy  love  of  life,  were  abated.  He 
had  her  more  or  less  to  himself. 

As  he  mounted  the  staircase  with  his  slow,  firm  step,  holding 
his  soldierly  figure  very  upright,  he  was  looking  forward  to 
one  of  the  usual  quiet,  friendly  conversations  with  Adela 
which  were  his  greatest  enjoyments,  and  as  he  passed  through 
the  doorway  of  the  drawing-room  his  eyes  turned  at  once 
towards  the  sofa  near  the  big  fireplace,  seeking  for  the  tall 
figure  of  the  woman  who  so  mysteriously  had  captured  his 
heart  in  the  long  ago  and  who  had  never  been  able  to  let  it 
out  of  her  keeping. 

But  there  was  no  one  by  the  fire,  and  the  butler  said: 

"I  will  tell  her  ladyship  that  you  are  here,  sir." 

"Thank  you,  Murgatroyd,"  said  Sir  Seymour. 

And  he  went  up  to  the  fireplace,  turned  round,  and  began 
to  warm  his  flat  back. 

He  stood  there  thus  till  his  back  was  quite  warm.  Adela 
was  rather  slow  in  coming.     But  he  did  not  mind  that.     It  was 


278  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

happiness  for  him  to  be  in  her  house,  among  her  things,  the 
sofas  and  chairs  she  used,  the  carpet  her  feet  pressed  every- 
day, the  books  she  read,  the  flowers  she  had  chosen.  This 
house  was  his  idea  of  a  home  who  had  never  had  a  home 
because  of  her. 

Meanwhile  upstairs,  in  a  big  bedroom  just  overhead,  Lady 
Sellingworth  was  having  a  battle  with  herself  of  which  her 
friend  was  totally  unconscious.  She  did  not  come  down  at 
once  because  she  wanted  definitely  and  finally  to  finish  that 
battle  before  she  saw  again  the  man  by  the  fire.  But  some- 
thing said  to  her :  "Don't  decide  till  you  have  seen  him  again. 
Look  at  him  once  more  and  then  decide."  She  walked  softly 
up  and  down  the  room  after  Murgatroyd  had  told  her  who  was 
waiting  for  her,  and  she  felt  gnawed  by  apprehension.  She 
knew  her  fate  was  in  the  balance.  All  day  she  had  been  trying 
to  decide  what  she  was  going  to  do.  All  day  she  had  been 
saying  to  herself :  "Now,  this  moment,  I  will  decide,  and  once 
the  decision  is  made  there  shall  be  no  going  back  from  it." 
It  was  within  her  power  to  come  to  a  decision  and  to  stick  to 
it ;  or,  if  it  were  not  within  her  power,  then  she  was  not  a  sane 
but  an  insane  woman.  She  knew  herself  sane.  Yet  the  deci- 
sion was  not  arrived  at  when  Sir  Seymour  rang  the  bell.  Now 
he  was  waiting  in  the  room  underneath  and  the  matter  must  be 
settled.  An  effort  of  will,  the  descent  of  a  flight  of  stairs,  a 
sentence  spoken,  and  her  life  would  be  made  fast  to  an  anchor 
which  would  hold.  And  for  her  there  would  be  no  more 
drifting  upon  dangerous  seas  at  the  mercy  of  tempests. 

"Look  at  him  once  more  and  then  decide." 

The  voice  persisted  within  her  monotonously.  But  what  an 
absurd  injunction  that  was.  She  knew  Seymour  by  heart, 
knew  every  feature  of  him,  every  expression  of  his  keen,  ob- 
servant but  affectionate  eyes,  the  way  he  held  himself,  the 
shapes  of  his  strong,  rather  broad  hands — the  hands  of  a  fine 
horseman  and  first-rate  whip — every  trick  of  him,  every  atti- 
tude. Why  look  at  him,  her  old  familiar  friend,  again  before 
deciding  what  she  was  now  going  to  do? 

"Look  at  him  as  the  man  who  is  going  to  be  your  husband !" 

But  that  was  surely  a  deceiving  insidious  voice,  suggesting 
to  her  weakness,  uncertainty,  hesitation,  further  mental  tor- 
ment and  further  debate.     And  she  was  afraid  of  it. 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  279 

She  stood  still  near  the  window.  She  must  go  down.  Sey- 
mour had  already  been  waiting  some  time,  ten  minutes  or  more. 
He  must  be  wondering  why  she  did  not  come.  He  was  not 
the  sort  of  man  one  cares  to  keep  waiting — although  he  had 
waited  many  years  scarcely  daring  to  hope  for  something  he 
longed  for.  She  thought  of  his  marvellous  happiness,  his 
wonderful  surprise,  if  she  did  what  she  meant — or  did  she 
mean  it — to  do.  Surely  it  would  be  a  splendid  thing  to  bring 
such  a  flash  of  radiance  into  a  life  of  twilight.  Does  happiness 
come  from  making  others  happy?     H  so,  then 

She  must  go  down. 

"I  will  do  it!"  she  said  to  herself.  "Merely  his  happiness 
will  be  enough  reward." 

And  she  went  towards  the  door.  But  as  she  did  so  her 
apprehension  grew  till  her  body  tingled  with  it.  A  strange 
sensation  of  being  physically  unwell  came  upon  her.  She 
shrank,  as  if  physically,  from  the  clutching  hands  of  the  ir- 
revocable. If  in  a  hurry,  driven  by  her  demon,  she  were  to 
say  the  words  she  had  in  her  mind  there  would  be  no  going 
back.  She  would  never  dare  to  unsay  them.  She  knew  that. 
But  that  was  just  the  great  advantage  she  surely  was  seeking — 
an  irrevocable  safety  from  herself,  a  safety  she  would  never 
be  able  to  get  away  from,  break  out  of. 

In  a  prison  there  is  safety  from  all  the  dangers  and  horrors 
of  the  world  outside  the  prison.  But  what  a  desperate  love 
of  the  state  she  now  called  freedom  burned  within  her !  Free- 
dom for  what,  though?  She  knew  and  felt  as  if  her  soul  were 
slowly  reddening.  It  was  monstrous  that  thought  of  hers. 
Yet  she  could  not  help  having  it.  It  was  surely  not  her  fault 
if  she  had  it.  Was  she  a  sort  of  monster  unlike  all  other 
women  of  her  age?  Or  did  many  of  them,  too,  have  such 
thoughts  ? 

She  must  go  down.  And  she  went  to  the  door  and  opened 
it.  And  directly  she  saw  the  landing  outside  and  the  descend- 
ing staircase  she  knew  that  she  had  not  yet  decided,  that  she 
could  not  decide  till  she  had  looked  at  Seymour  once  more, 
looked  at  him  with  the  almost  terrible  eyes  of  the  deeply  ex- 
perienced woman  who  can  no  longer  decide  a  thing  swiftly  in 
ignorance. 

"I  shall  do  it,"  she  said  to  herself.     "But  I  must  be  reason- 


280  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

able,  and  there  is  no  reason  why  I  should  force  myself  to  make 
up  my  mind  finally  up  here.  I  have  sent  for  Seymour  and  I 
know  why.  When  I  see  him,  when  I  am  with  him,  I  shall 
do  what  I  intended  to  do  when  I  asked  him  to  come." 

She  shut  her  bedroom  door  and  began  to  go  downstairs, 
and  as  she  went  she  imagined  Seymour  settled  in  that  house 
with  her.  (For,  of  course,  he  would  come  to  live  in  Berkeley 
Square,  would  leave  the  set  of  rooms  he  occupied  now  in  St. 
James's  Palace.)  She  had  often  longed  to  have  a  male  com- 
panion living  with  her  in  that  house,  to  smell  cigar  smoke,  to 
hear  a  male  voice,  a  strong  footstep  in  the  hall  and  on  the 
stairs,  to  see  things  that  implied  a  man's  presence  lying  about, 
caps,  pipes,  walking  sticks,  golf  clubs,  riding  crops.  The 
whole  atmosphere  of  the  house  would  be  changed  if  a  man 
came  to  live  with  her  there,  if  Seymour  came. 

But — her  liberty ! 

She  had  gained  the  last  stair  and  was  on  the  great  landing 
before  the  drawing-room  door.  Down  below  she  heard  a  faint 
and  discreet  murmur  of  voices  from  Murgatroyd  and  the  foot- 
man in  the  hall.  And  as  she  paused  for  a  moment  she  won- 
dered how  much  those  two  men  knew  of  her  and  of  her  real 
character,  whether  they  had  any  definite  knowledge  of  her 
humanity,  whether  they  perhaps  realized  in  their  way  what  sort 
of  woman  she  was,  sometimes  stripped  away  the  Grande  Dame, 
the  mistress,  and  looked  with  appraising  eyes  at  the  stark 
woman. 

She  would  never  know. 

She  opened  the  door  and  instantly  assumed  her  usual  care- 
lessly friendly  look. 

Sir  Seymour  had  left  the  fire,  and  was  sitting  in  an  arm- 
chair with  a  book  in  his  hand  reading  when  she  came  in ;  and 
as  she  had  opened  the  door  softly,  and  as  it  was  a  long  way 
from  the  fireplace,  he  did  not  hear  her  or  instantly  realize  that 
she  was  there.  She  had  an  instant  in  which  to  contemplate 
him  as  he  sat  there,  like  a  man  quietly  at  home.  Only  one 
lamp  was  lit.  It  stood  on  a  table  behind  him  and  threw  light 
on  his  rather  big  head  thickly  covered  with  curly  and  snow- 
white  hair,  the  hair  which  he  sometimes  smilingly  called  his 
"cauliflower."  The  light  fell,  too,  aslant  on  his  strong-featured 
manly  face,  the  slightly  hooked  nose,  large-lipped,  firm  mouth, 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  281 

shaded  by  a  moustache  in  which  some  dark  hairs  were  mingled 
with  the  white  ones,  and  chin  with  a  deep  dent  in  the  middle 
of  it.  His  complexion  was  of  that  weather-beaten  red  hue 
which  is  often  seen  in  oldish  men  who  have  been  much  out 
in.  all  weathers.  There  were  many  deep  lines  in  the  face,  two 
specially  deep  ones  slanting  downwards  from  the  nose  on  either 
side  of  the  mouth.  Above  the  nose  there  was  a  sort  of  bump, 
from  which  the  low  forehead  slightly  retreated  to  the  curves 
of  strong  white  hair.  The  ears  were  large  but  well  shaped. 
In  order  to  read  he  had  put  on  pince-nez  with  tortoise-shell 
rimmed  glasses,  from  which  hung  a  rather  broad  black  riband. 
His  thin  figure  looked  stiff  even  in  an  arm-chair.  His  big 
brown-red  hands  held  the  book  up.  His  legs  were  crossed, 
and  his  feet  were  strongly  defined  by  the  snowy  white  spats 
which  partially  concealed  his  varnished  black  boots.  He  looked 
a  distinguished  old  man  as  he  sat  there — but  he  looked  old. 

"Is  it  possible  that  I  look  at  all  that  sort  of  age?"  was 
Lady  Sellingworth's  thought  as,  for  a  brief  instant,  she  con- 
templated him,  with  an  intensity,  a  sort  of  almost  fierce  sharp- 
ness which  she  was  scarcely  aware  of. 

He  looked  up,  made  a  twitching  movement;  his  pince-nez 
fell  to  his  black  coat,  and  he  got  up  alertly, 

"Adela !" 

She  shut  the  door  and  went  towards  him,  and  as  she  did  so 
she  thought: 

"If  I  had  seen  Alick  Craven  sitting  there  reading!" 

"I  was  having  a  look  at  this." 

He  held  up  the  book.  It  was  Baudelaire's  "Les  Fleurs  du 
Mat." 

"Not  the  book  for  you!"  she  said.  "Though  your  French 
is  so  good." 

"No." 

He  laid  it  down,  and  she  noticed  the  tangle  of  veins  on  his 
hand. 

"The  dandy  in  literature  doesn't  appeal  to  me.  I  must  say 
many  of  these  poets  strike  me  as  decadent  fellows,  not  helped 
to  anything  like  real  manliness  by  their  gifts." 

She  sat  down  on  the  sofa,  just  where  she  had  sat  to  have 
those  long  talks  with  Craven  about  Waring  and  Italy,  the  sea 
people,  the  colours  of  the   sails  on  those   ships  which  look 


282  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

magical  in  sunsets,  which  move  on  as  if  bearing  argosies  from 
gorgeous  hidden  lands  of  the  East. 

"But  never  mind  Baudelaire,"  he  continued,  and  his  eyes, 
heavily  lidded  and  shrouded  by  those  big  bushy  eyebrows  which 
seem  to  sprout  almost  with  ardent  violence  as  the  body  gro^vs 
old,  looked  at  her  with  melting  kindness.  "What  have  you 
been  doing,  my  dear?  The  old  dog  wants  to  know.  There  is 
something  on  your  mind,  isn't  there?" 

Lady  Sellingworth  had  once  said  to  Sir  Seymour  that  he 
reminded  her  of  a  big  dog,  and  he  had  laughed  and  said  that 
he  was  a  big  dog  belonging  to  her.  Since  that  day,  when  he 
wrote  to  her,  he  had  often  signed  himself  "the  old  dog."  And 
often  she  had  thought  of  him  almost  as  one  thinks  of  a  devoted 
dog,  absolutely  trustworthy,  ready  for  instant  attack  on  your 
enemies,  faithful  with  unquestioning  faithfulness  through  any- 
thing. 

As  he  spoke  he  gently  took  her  hand,  and  she  thought,  "If 
Alick  Craven  were  taking  my  hand !" 

The  touch  of  his  skin  was  warm  and  very  dry.  It  gave 
her  a  woman's  thoughts,  not  to  be  told  of. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

Very  gently  she  released  her  hand,  and  as  she  did  so  she 
looked  at  it  almost  sternly. 

"Why?"  she  said.  "Do  I  look  unhappy — or  what?  Sit 
down,  Seymour  dear." 

She  seemed  to  add  the  last  word  with  a  sort  of  pressure, 
with  almost  self-conscious  intention. 

He  drew  the  tails  of  his  braided  morning  coat  forward  with 
both  hands  and  sat  down,  and  she  thought,  "How  differently 
a  young  man  sits  down!" 

"Unhappy!"  he  said,  in  his  quiet  and  strong,  rather  deep 
voice. 

He  looked  at  her  with  the  scrutinizing  eyes  of  affection, 
whose  gaze  sometimes  is  so  difficult  to  bear.  And  she  felt  that 
something  within  her  was  writhing  under  his  eyes. 

"I  don't  think  you  often  look  happy,  Adela.  No ;  it  isn't 
that.  But  you  look  to-day  as  if  you  had  been  going  through 
something  which  had  tried  your  nerves — some  crisis." 

He  paused.  She  remained  silent  and  looked  at  his  hands 
and  then  at  his  eyelids  and  eyebrows.     And  there  was  a  ter- 


cHAPTEu  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  283 

rible  coldness  in  her  scrutiny,  which  she  did  not  show  to  him, 
but  of  which  she  was  painfully  aware.  His  nails  were  not 
flat,  but  were  noticeably  curved.  For  a  moment  the  thought 
in  her  mind  was  simply,  "Could  I  live  with  those  nails?"  She 
hated  herself  for  that  thought ;  she  despised  herself  for  it ;  she 
considered  herself  almost  inhuman  and  certainly  despicable, 
and  she  recalled  swiftly  what  Seymour  was,  the  essential  beauty 
and  fineness  of  his  character,  his  truth,  his  touching  faithful- 
ness. And  almost  simultaneously  she  thought,  "Why  do  old 
men  get  those  terribly  bushy  eyebrows,  like  thickets?" 

"Perhaps  I  think  too  much,"  she  said.  "Living  alone,  one 
thinks — and  thinks.     You  have  so  much  to  do  and  I  so  little." 

"Sometimes  I  think  of  retiring,"  he  said. 

"From  the  court  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  but  they  would  never  let  you !" 

"My  place  could  be  filled  easily  enough.'* 

"Oh,  no,  it  couldn't." 

And  she  added,  leaning  forward  now,  and  looking  at  him 
differently : 

"Don't  you  ever  realize  how  rare  you  are,  Seymour  ?  There 
is  scarcely  anyone  left  like  you,  and  yet  you  are  not  old- 
fashioned.  Do  you  know  that  I  have  never  yet  met  a  man 
who  really  was  a  man " 

"Now,  now,  Adela!" 

"No,  I  will  say  it !  I  have  never  met  a  real  man  who,  know- 
ing you,  didn't  think  you  were  rare.  They  wouldn't  let  you 
go.     Besides,  what  would  you  retire  to  ?" 

Again  she  looked  at  him  with  a  scrutiny  which  she  felt  to 
be  morally  cruel.  She  could  not  refrain  from  it  just  then. 
It  seemed  to  come  inevitably  from  her  own  misery  and  almost 
desperation.  At  one  moment  she  felt  a  rush  of  tenderness 
for  him,  at  another  an  almost  stony  hardness. 

"Ah — ^that's  just  it!  I  dare  say  it  will  be  better  to  die  in 
harness." 

"Die!"  she  said,  as  if  startled. 

At  that  moment  the  thought  assailed  her,  "If  Seymour  were 
suddenly  to  die!"  There  would  be  a  terrible  gap  in  her  life. 
Her  loneliness  then  would  be  horrible  indeed  unless — she  pulled 


284  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

herself  up  with  a  sort  of  fierce  mental  violence.     "I  won't! 
I  won't!"  she  cried  out  to  herself. 

"You  are  very  strong  and  healthy,  Seymour,"  she  said. 
"I  think  you  will  live  to  be  very  old." 

"Probably.  Palaces  usually  contain  a  few  dodderers.  But 
is  anything  the  matter,  Adela  ?  The  old  dog  is  very  persistent, 
you  know." 

"I've  been  feeling  a  little  depressed." 

"You  stay  alone  too  much,  I  believe." 

"It  isn't  that.  I  was  out  at  the  theatre  with  a  party  only 
last  night.  We  went  to  The  Great  Lover.  But  he  wasn't 
like  you.     You  are  a  really  great  lover." 

And  again  she  leaned  forward  towards  him,  trying  to  feel 
physically  what  surely  she  was  feeling  in  another  way. 

"The  greatest  in  London,  I  am  sure." 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said,  very  simply.  "But  certainly  I  have 
the  gift  of  faithfulness,  if  it  is  a  gift." 

"We  had  great  discussions  on  love  and  jealousy  last  night." 

"Did  you  ?    Whom  were  you  with  ?" 

"I  went  with  Beryl  Van  Tuyn  and  Francis  Braybrooke." 

"An  oddly  uneven  pair !" 

"Alick  Craven  was  with  us,  too." 

"The  boy  I  met  here  one  Sunday." 

Lady  Sellingworth  felt  an  almost  fierce  flash  of  irritation 
as  she  heard  him  say  "boy." 

"He's  hardly  a  boy,"  she  said.  "He  must  be  at  least  thirty, 
and  I  think  he  seems  even  older  than  he  is." 

"Does  he?  He  struck  me  as  very  young.  When  he  went 
away  with  that  pretty  girl  it  was  like  young  April  going  out  of 
the  room  with  all  the  daffodils.    They  matched." 

The  intense  irritation  grew  in  Lady  Sellingworth.  She  felt 
as  if  she  were  being  pricked  by  a  multitude  of  pins. 

"Beryl  is  years  and  years  younger  than  he  is !"  she  said.  "I 
don't  think  you  are  very  clever  about  ages,  Seymour.  There 
must  be  nearly  ten  years  difference  between  them." 

Scarcely  had  she  said  this  than  her  mind  added,  "And  about 
thirty  years'  difference  between  him  and  me !"  And  then  some- 
thing in  her — she  thought  of  it  as  the  soul — crumpled  up, 
almost  as  if  trying  to  die  and  know  nothing  more. 


CHAPTKR  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  286 

"What  is  it,  Adela?"  again  he  said,  gently.  "Can't  I  help 
you?" 

"No,  no,  you  can't!"  she  answered,  almost  with  desperation, 
no  longer  able  to  control  herself  thoroughly. 

Suddenly  she  felt  as  if  she  were  losing  her  head,  as  if  she 
might  break  down  before  him,  let  him  into  her  miserable  secret. 

"The  fact  is,"  she  continued,  fixing  her  eyes  upon  him,  as 
a  criminal  might  fix  his  eyes  on  his  judge  while  denying  every- 
thing. "The  fact  is  that  none  of  us  really  can  help  anyone 
else.  We  may  think  we  can  sometimes,  but  we  can't.  We  all 
work  out  our  own  destinies  in  absolute  loneliness.  You  and 
I  are  very  old  friends,  and  yet  we  are  far  away  from  each 
other,  always  have  been  and  always  shall  be.  No,  you  haven't 
the  power  to  help  me,  Seymour." 

"But  what  is  the  matter,  my  dear?" 

"Life — life!"  she  said,  and  there  was  a  fierce  exasperation 
in  her  voice.  "I  cannot  understand  the  unfairnesses  of  life, 
the  cruel  injustices." 

"Are  you  specially  suffering  from  them  to-day?"  he  asked, 
and  for  a  moment  his  eyes  were  less  soft,  more  penetrating,  as 
they  looked  at  her. 

"Yes !"  she  said. 

A  terrible  feeling  of  "I  don't  care!"  was  taking  possession 
of  her,  was  beginning  to  drive  her.  And  she  thought  of  the 
women  of  the  streets  who,  in  anger  or  misery,  vomit  forth 
their  feelings  with  reckless  disregard  of  opinion  in  a  torrent 
of  piercing  language. 

"I'm  really  just  like  one  of  them!"  was  her  thought. 
"Trimmed  up  as  a  lady!" 

"Some  people  have  such  happy  lives,  years  and  years  of 
happiness,  and  others  are  tortured  and  tormented,  and  all  th^ir 
efforts  to  be  happy,  or  even  to  be  at  peace,  without  any  real 
happiness,  are  in  vain.  It  is  of  no  use  rebelling,  of  course, 
and  rebellion  only  reacts  on  the  rebel  and  makes  everything 
worse,  but  still " 

Her  face  suddenly  twisted.  In  all  her  life  she  thought  she 
had  never  felt  so  utterly  hopeless  before. 

Sir  Seymour  stretched  out  a  hand  to  put  it  on  hers,  but  she 
drew  away. 


286  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

"No,  no — don't!  I'm  not — you  can't  do  anything,  Seymour. 
It's  no  use!" 

She  got  up  from  the  sofa,  and  walked  away  down  the  long 
drawing-room,  trying  to  struggle  with  herself,  to  get  back  self- 
control.  It  was  like  madness  this  abrupt  access  of  passion  and 
violent  despair,  and  she  did  not  know  how  to  deal  with  it, 
did  not  feel  capable  of  dealing  with  it.  She  looked  out  of  the 
window  into  Berkeley  Square,  after  pulling  back  curtain  and 
blind.  Always  Berkeley  Square!  Berkeley  Square  till  abso- 
lute old  age,  and  then  death  came !  And  she  seemed  to  see 
her  own  funeral  leaving  the  door.  Good-bye  to  Berkeley 
Square !     She  let  the  blind  drop,  the  curtain  fall  into  its  place. 

Sir  Seymour  had  got  up  and  was  standing  by  the  fire.  Shp 
saw  him  in  the  distance,  that  faithful  old  man,  and  she  wished 
she  could  love  him.  She  clenched  her  hands,  trying  to  will 
herself  to  love  him  and  to  want  to  take  him  into  her  intimate 
life..  But  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  go  back  to  him  just 
then,  and  she  did  not  know  what  she  was  going  to  do.  Per- 
haps she  would  have  left  the  room  had  not  an  interruption 
occurred.  She  heard  the  door  open  and  saw  Murgatroyd  and 
the  footman  bringing  in  tea. 

"You  can  turn  on  another  light,  Murgatroyd,"  she  said,  in- 
stantly recovering  herself  sufficiently  to  speak  in  a  natural 
voice. 

And  she  walked  back  down  the  room  to  Sir  Seymour,  carry- 
ing with  her  a  little  silver  vase  full  of  very  large  white  carna- 
tions. 

"These  are  the  flowers  I  was  speaking  about,"  she  said  to 
him.  "Have  you  ever  seen  any  so  large  before?  They  look 
almost  unnatural,  don't  they?" 

When  the  servants  were  gone  she  said : 

"You  must  think  me  half  crazy,  Seymour." 

"No ;  but  I  don't  understand  what  has  happened." 

"/  have  happened,  I  and  my  miserable  disgusting  mind  and 
brain  and  temperament.     That's  all!" 

"You  are  very  severe  on  yourself." 

"Tell  me — have  you  ever  been  severe  on  me  in  your  mind? 
You  don't  really  know  me.  Nobody  does  or  ever  will.  But 
you  know  me  what  is  called  well.  Have  you  ever  been  men- 
tally severe,  hard  on  me?" 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  287 

"Yes,  sometimes,"  he  answered  gravely. 

She  felt  suddenly  rather  cold,  and  she  knew  that  his  answer 
had  surprised  her.  She  had  certainly  expected  him  to  say, 
"Never,  my  dear!" 

"I  thought  so !"  she  said. 

And,  while  saying  it,  she  was  scarcely  conscious  that  she 
was  telling  a  lie. 

"But  you  must  not  think  that  such  thoughts  about  you  ever 
made  the  least  difference  in  my  feeling  for  you,"  he  said. 
"That  has  never  changed,  never  could  change." 

"Oh — I  don't  know!"  she  said  in  a  rather  hard  voice. 
"Everything  can  change,  I  think." 

"No." 

"I  suppose  you  have  often  disapproved  of  things  I  have 
done?" 

"Sometimes  I  have." 

"Tell  me,  if — if  things  had  been  different,  and  you  and  I 
had  come  together,  what  would  you  have  done  if  you  had 
disapproved  of  my  conduct?" 

"What  is  the  good  of  entering  upon  that  ?" 

"Yes;  do  tell  me!     I  want  to  know." 

"I  hope  I  should  find  the  way  to  hold  a  woman  who  was 
mine,"  he  said,  with  a  sort  of  decisive  calmness,  but  with  a 
great  temperateness. 

"But  if  you  married  an  ungovernable  creature?" 

"I  doubt  if  anybody  is  absolutely  ungovernable.  In  the 
army  I  have  had  to  deal  with  some  stiff  propositions ;  but  there 
is  always  a  way." 

"Is  there?  But  in  the  army  you  deal  with  men.  And  we 
are  so  utterly  different." 

"I  think  I  should  have  fdund  the  way." 

"Could  he  find  the  way  now?"  she  thought,  "Shall  I  do  it? 
Shall  I  risk  it?" 

"Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that?"  he  asked;  "almost  as 
if  you  were  looking  at  me  for  the  first  time  and  were  trying  to 
make  me  out  ?" 

She  did  not  answer,  but  gave  him  his  tea  and  sat  back  on 
her  sofa. 

"You  sent  for  me  for  some  special  reason.  You  had  some 
plan,  some  project  in  your  mind,"  he  continued.     "I  did  not 


288  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

realize  that  at  first,  but  now  I  am  sure  of  it.  You  want  me 
to  help  you  in  some  way,  don't  you  ?" 

She  was  still  companioned  by  the  desperation  which  had 
come  upon  her  when  she  had  made  that,  for  her,  terrible  com- 
parison between  Beryl  Van  Tuyn's  age  and  Craven's.  Some- 
how it  had  opened  her  eyes — her  own  remark.  In  hearing  it 
she  had  seemed  to  hear  other  voices,  almost  a  sea  of  voices, 
saying  things  about  herself,  pitying  things,  sneering  things, 
bitter  things ;  worst  of  all,  things  which  sent  a  wave  of  con- 
temptuous laughter  through  the  society  to  which  she  belonged. 
Ten  years  multiplied  by  three !  No,  it  was  impossible !  But 
there  was  only  one  way  out.  She  was  almost  sure  that  if  she 
were  left  to  herself,  were  left  to  be  her  own  mistress  in  perfect 
freedom,  her  temperament  would  run  away  with  her  again  as  it 
had  so  often  done  in  the  past.  She  was  almost  sure  that  she 
would  brave  the  ridicule,  would  turn  a  face  of  stone  to  the 
subtle  condemnation,  would  defy  the  contempt  of  the  "old 
guard,"  the  sorrow  and  pity  of  Seymour,  the  anger  of  Beryl 
Van  Tuyn,  even  her  own  self -contempt,  in  order  to  satisfy 
the  imperious  driving  force  within  her  which  once  again  gave 
her  no  rest.  Seymour  could  save  her  from  all  that,  save  her 
almost  forcibly.  Safety  from  it  was  there  with  her  in  the 
room.  Rocheouart,  Rupert  Louth,  other  young  men  were 
about  her  for  a  moment.  The  brown  eyes  of  the  man  who  had 
stolen  her  jewels  looked  down  into  hers  pleading  for — her 
property.  After  all  her  experiences  could  she  be  fool  enough 
to  follow  a  marshlight  again  ?  But  Alick  Craven  was  different 
from  all  these  men.  She  gave  him  something  that  he  really 
seemed  to  want.  He  would  be  sorry,  he  would  perhaps  be 
resentful,  if  she  took  it  away. 

"Adela,  if  you  cannot  trust  the  old  dog  whom  can  you  trust?" 

"I  know— I  know !" 

But  again  she  was  silent.  If  Seymour  only  knew  how  near 
he  perhaps  was  to  his  greatest  desire's  fulfilment !  If  he  only 
knew  the  conflict  which  was  raging  in  her!  At  one  moment 
she  was  on  the  edge  of  giving  in,  and  flinging  herself  into 
prison  and  safety.  At  another  she  recoiled.  How  much  did 
Seymour  know  of  her?     How  well  did  he  understand  her? 

"You  said  just  now  that  you  had  sometimes  been  hard  on 
me  in  your  mind,"  she  said  abruptly.     "What  about?" 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  289 

"That's  all  long  ago." 

"How  long  ago?" 

"Years  and  years." 

"Ten  years  ?" 

"Yes— quite." 

"You  have — you  have  respected  me  for  ten  years?" 

"And  loved  you  for  a  great  many  more." 

"Never  mind  about  love!  You  have  respected  me  for  ten 
years  ?" 

"Yes,  Adela." 

"Tell  me — have  you  loved  me  more  since  you  have  been  able 
to  respect  me?" 

"I  think  I  have.     To  respect  means  a  great  deal  with  me." 

"I  must  often  have  disgusted  you  very  much  before  ten  years 
ago.  I  expect  you  have  often  wondered  very  much  about  me, 
Seymour  ?" 

"It  is  difficult  to  understand  the  great  differences  between 
your  own  temperament  and  another's,  of  course." 

"Yes.  How  can  faithfulness  be  expected  to  understand  its 
opposite  ?  You  have  lived  like  a  monk,  almost,  and  I — I  have 
lived  like  a  courtesan." 

"Adela!" 

His  deep  voice  sounded  terribly  hurt. 

"Oh,  Seymour,  you  and  I — we  have  always  lived  in  the 
world.  We  know  all  its  humbug  by  heart.  We  are  both  old — 
old  now,  and  why  should  we  pretend  to  each  other?  You 
know  how  lots  of  us  have  lived,  no  one  better.  And  I  suppose 
I  have  been  one  of  the  worst.  But,  as  you  say,  for  ten  years 
now  I  have  behaved  myself." 

She  stopped.  She  longed  to  say,  "And,  my  God,  Seymour, 
I  am  sick  of  behaving  myself !"  That  would  have  been  the 
naked  truth.  But  even  to  him,  after  what  she  had  just  said, 
she  could  not  utter  it.     Instead,  she  added  after  a  moment: 

"A  great  many  lies  have  been  lifted  up  as  guiding  lamps  to 
men  in  the  darkness.  One  of  them  is  the  saying :  'Virtue  is  its 
own  reward.'  I  have  behaved  for  ten  years,  and  I  know  it  is 
a  lie." 

"Adela,  what  is  exasperating  you  to-day?  Can't  you  tell 
me?" 


290  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  four 

Once  more  she  looked  at  him  with  a  sharp  and  intense 
scrutiny.  She  thought  it  was  really  a  final  look,  and  one  that 
was  to  decide  her  fate;  his  too,  though  he  did  not  know  it. 
She  knew  his  worth.  She  knew  the  value  of  the  dweller  in  his 
temple,  and  had  no  need  to  debate  about  that.  But  she  was 
one  of  those  to  whom  the  temple  means  much.  She  could  not 
dissociate  dweller  from  dwelling.  The  outside  had  always 
had  a  tremendous  influence  upon  her,  and  time  had  not  lessened 
that  influence.  Perhaps  Sir  Seymour  felt  that  she  was  trying 
to  come  to  some  great  decision,  though  he  did  not  know,  or 
even  suspect,  what  that  decision  was.  For  long  ago  he  had 
finally  given  up  all  hope  of  ever  winning  her  for  his  wife.  He 
sat  still  after  asking  this  question.  The  lamplight  shone  over 
his  thick,  curly  white  hair,  his  lined,  weather-beaten,  distin- 
guished old  face,  broad,  cavalryman's  hands,  upright  figure, 
shone  into  his  faithful  dog's  eyes.  And  she  looked  and  took 
in  every  physical  detail,  as  only  a  woman  can  when  she  looks 
at  a  man  whom  she  is  considering  in  a  certain  way. 

The  silence  seemed  long.     At  last  he  broke  it.     For  he  had 
seen  an  expression  of  despair  come  into  her  face. 
"My  dear,  what  is  it?    You  must  tell  me!" 
But  suddenly  the  look  of  despair  gave  place  to  a  mocking 
look  which  he  knew  very  well. 

'Tt's    only    boredom,    Seymour.      I    have    had    too    much 
of  Berkeley  Square.    I  think  I  shall  go  away  for  a  little." 
"To  Cap  Martin  ?" 

"Perhaps.  Where  does  one  go  when  one  wants  to  run  away 
from  oneself  ?" 

And  then  she  changed  the  conversation  and  talked,  as  she 
generally  talked  to  Sir  Seymour,  of  the  life  they  both  knew,  of 
the  doings  at  Court,  of  politics,  people,  the  state  of  the  country, 
what  was  likely  to  come  to  old  England. 

She  had  decided  against  Seymour.  But  she  had  not  decided 
for  Craven.  After  the  moment  of  despair,  of  feeling  herself 
lost,  she  had  suddenly  said  to  herself,  or  a  voice  had  said  in  her, 
a  voice  coming  from  she  knew  not  where : 

"I  will  remain  free,  but  henceforth  I  will  be  my  own  mistress 
in  freedom,  not  the  slave  of  myself." 

And  then  mentally  she  had  dismissed  both   Seymour  and 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  291 

Craven  out  of  her  life,  the  one  as  a  possible  husband,  the  other 
as  a  friend. 

If  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  take  the  one,  then  she  would 
not  keep  the  other.  She  must  seek  for  peace  in  loneliness.  Evi- 
dently that  was  her  destiny.  She  gave  herself  to  it  with  mocking 
eyes  and  despair  in  her  heart. 


PART  FIVE 


CHAPTER  I 

THREE  days  later,  soon  after  four  o'clock,  Craven  rang  the 
bell  at  Lady  Selling  worth's  door.  As  he  stood  for  a 
moment  waiting  for  it  to  be  answered  he  wondered  whether  she 
would  be  at  home  to  him,  how  she  would  greet  him  if  she  chose 
to  see  him.     The  door  was  opened  by  a  footman. 

"Is  her  ladyship  at  home  ?" 

"Her  ladyship  has  gone  out  of  town,  sir." 

"When  will  she  be  back?" 

"I  couldn't  say,  sir.    Her  ladyship  has  gone  abroad." 

Craven  stood  for  a  moment  without  speaking.  He  was 
amazed,  and  felt  as  if  he  had  received  a  blow.    Finally,  he  said : 

"Do  you  think  she  will  be  long  away?" 

"Her  ladyship  has  gone  for  some  time,  sir,  I  believe." 

The  young  man's  face,  firm,  with  rosy  cheeks  and  shallow, 
blue  eyes,  was  strangely  inexpressive.  Craven  hesitated,  then 
said: 

"Do  you  know  where  her  ladyship  has  gone?  I — I  wish  to 
write  a  note  to  her." 

"I  believe  it's  some  place  near  Monty  Carlo,  sir.  Her  ladyship 
gave  orders  that  no  letters  were  to  be  forwarded  for  the 
present." 

"Thank  you." 

Craven  turned  away  and  walked  slowly  towards  Mayfair. 
He  felt  startled  and  hurt,  even  angry.  So  this  was  friendship ! 
And  he  had  been  foolish  enough  to  think  that  Lady  Selling- 
worth  was  beginning  to  value  his  company,  that  she  was  a 
lonely  woman,  and  that  perhaps  his  visits,  his  sympathy,  meant 
something,  even  a  good  deal,  to  her.  What  a  young  fool  he  had 
been !  And  what  a  humbug  she  must  be !  Suddenly  London 
seemed  empty.    He  remembered  the  coldness  in  the  wording  of 

293 


294  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

the  note  she  had  sent  him  saying  that  she  could  not  see  him  the 
day  after  the  theatre  party.  She  had  put  forward  no  excuse, 
no  explanation.  What  had  happened  ?  He  felt  that  something 
must  have  happened  which  had  changed  her  feeling  towards 
him.  For  though  he  told  himself  that  she  must  be  a  humbug, 
he  did  not  really  feel  that  she  was  one.  Perhaps  she  was  angry 
with  him,  and  that  was  why  she  had  not  chosen  to  tell  him  that 
she  was  going  abroad  before  she  started.  But  what  reason 
had  he  given  her  for  anger?  Mentally  he  reviewed  the  events 
of  their  last  evening  together.    It  had  been  quite  a  gay  evening. 

Nothing  disagreeable  had  happened  unless Lady  Wrackley 

and  Mrs.  Ackroyde  came  to  his  mind.  He  saw  them  before  him 
with  their  observant,  experienced  eyes,  their  smiling,  satirical 
lips.  They  had  made  him  secretly  uncomfortable.  He  had 
felt  undressed  when  he  was  with  them,  and  had  realized  that 
they  knew  of  and  were  probably  amused  by  his  friendship  for 
Lady  Sellingworth.  And  he  had  hated  their  knowledge.  Per- 
haps she  had  hated  it  too,  although  she  had  not  shown  a  trace 
of  discomfort.  Or,  perhaps,  she  had  disHked  his  manner  with 
Miss  Van  Tuyn,  assumed  to  hide  his  own  sensitiveness.  And 
at  that  moment  he  thought  of  his  intercourse  with  Miss  Van 
Tuyn  with  exaggeration.  It  was  possible  that  he  had  acted 
badly,  had  been  blatant.  But  anyhow  Lady  Sellingworth  had 
been  very  unkind.  She  ought  to  have  told  him  that  she  was 
going  abroad,  to  have  let  him  see  her  before  she  went. 

He  felt  that  this  short  episode  in  his  life  was  quite  over.  It 
had  ended  abruptly,  undramatically.  It  had  seemed  to  mean  a 
good  deal,  and  it  had  really  meant  nothing.  What  a  boy  he  had 
been  through  it  all !  His  cheeks  burned  at  the  thought.  And 
he  had  prided  himself  on  being  a  thorough  man  of  the  world. 
Evidently,  despite  his  knowledge  of  life,  his  Foreign  Office 
training,  his  experience  of  war — he  had  been  a  soldier  for  two 
years — he  was  really  something  of  a  simpleton.  He  had  "given 
himself  away"  to  Braybrooke,  and  probably  to  others  as  well, 
to  Lady  Wrackley,  Mrs.  Ackroyde,  and  perhaps  even  to  Miss 
Van  Tuyn.     And  to  Lady  Sellingworth ! 

What  had  she  thought  of  him?  What  did  she  think  of  him? 
Nothing  perhaps.  She  had  belonged  to  the  "old  guard."  Many 
men  had  passed  through  her  hands.  He  felt  at  that  moment 
acute  hostility  to  women.     They  were  treacherous,  unreliable, 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  295 

even  the  best  of  them.  They  had  not  the  continuity  which 
belonged  to  men.  Even  elderly  women — he  was  thinking  of 
women  of  the  world — even  they  were  not  to  be  trusted.  Life 
was  warfare  even  when  war  was  over.  One  had  to  fight  always 
against  the  instability  of  those  around  you.  And  yet  there  was 
planted  in  a  man — at  any  rate  there  was  planted  in  him — a  deep 
longing  for  stability,  a  need  to  trust,  a  desire  to  attach  himself 
to  someone  with  whom  he  could  be  quite  unreserved,  to  whom 
he  could  "open  out"  without  fear  of  criticism  or  of  misunder- 
standing. 

He  had  believed  that  in  Lady  Sellingworth  he  had  found 
such  an  one,  and  now  he  had  been  shown  his  mistake.  He 
reached  the  house  in  which  he  lived,  but  although  he  had 
walked  to  it  with  the  intention  of  going  in  he  paused  on  the 
threshold,  then  turned  away  and  went  on  towards  Hyde  Park. 
Night  was  falling;  the  damp  softness  of  late  autumn  compan- 
ioned him  wistfully.  The  streets  were  not  very  full.  London 
seemed  unusually  quiet  that  evening.  But  when  he  reached  the 
Marble  Arch  he  saw  people  streaming  hither  and  thither,  hurry- 
ing towards  Oxford  Street,  pouring  into  the  Edgware  Road, 
climbing  upon  omnibuses  which  were  bound  for  Notting  Hill, 
Ealing  and  Acton,  drifting  towards  the  wide  and  gloomy  spaces 
of  the  Park.  He  crossed  the  great  roadway  and  went  into  the 
Park,  too.  Attracted  by  a  small  gathering  of  dark  figures  he 
joined  them,  and  standing  among  nondescript  loungers  he  lis- 
tened for  a  few  minutes  to  a  narrow-chested  man  with  a  long, 
haggard  face,  a  wispy  beard  and  protruding,  decayed  teeth,  who 
was  addressing  those  about  him  on  the  mysteries  of  life. 

He  spoke  of  the  struggle  for  bread,  of  materialism,  of  the 
illusions  of  sensuality,  of  the  Universal  Intelligence,  of  the  blind 
cruelty  of  existence. 

"You  are  all  unhappy !"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  thin  but  carrying 
voice,  which  sounded  genteel  and  fanatical.  ^'You  rush  here 
and  there  not  knowing  why  or  wherefore.  Many  of  you  have 
come  into  this  very  Park  to-night  without  any  object,  driven  by 
the  wish  for  something  to  take  you  out  of  your  miseries.  Can 
you  deny  it,  I  say  ?" 

A  tall  soldier  who  was  standing  near  Craven  looked  down  at 
the  plump  girl  beside  him  and  said : 

"How's  that,  Lil  ?    We're  both  jolly  miserable,  ain't  we  ?" 


296  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

"Go  along  with  yer !  Not  me !"  was  the  response,  with  an 
impudent  look. 

"Then  let's  get  on  where  it's  quieter.     What  ho !" 

They  moved  demurely  away. 

"Can  you  deny,"  the  narrow-chested  man  continued,  sawing 
the  air  with  a  thin,  dirty  hand,  "that  you  are  all  dissatisfied  with 
life,  that  you  wonder  about  it,  as  Plater  wondered,  as  Tolsto 
wondered,  as  the  Dean  of  St,  Paul's  wonders,  as  I  am  wonder- 
ing now  ?  From  this  very  Park  you  look  up  at  the  stars,  when 
there  are  any,  and  you  ask  yourselves " 

At  this  point  in  the  discourse  Craven  turned  away,  feeling 
that  edification  was  scarcely  to  be  found  by  him  here. 

Certainly  at  this  moment  he  was  dissatisfied  with  life.  But 
that  was  Lady  Selling  worth's  fault.  If  he  were  sitting  with 
her  now  in  Berkeley  Square  the  scheme  of  things  would  prob- 
ably not  seem  all  out  of  gear.  He  wondered  where  she  was, 
what  she  was  doing!  The  footman  had  said  he  believed  she 
was  near  Monte  Carlo.  Craven  remembered  once  hearing  her 
say  she  was  fond  of  Cap  Martin.  Probably  she  was  staying 
there.  It  occurred  to  him  that  possibly  she  had  told  some  of  her 
friends  of  her  approaching  departure,  though  she  had  chosen 
to  conceal  it  from  him.  Miss  Van  Tuyn  might  have  known  of 
it.  He  resolved  to  go  to  Brook  Street  and  find  out  whether 
the  charming  girl  had  been  in  the  secret.  Claridge's  was  close 
by.  It  would  be  something  to  do.  If  he  could  not  see  Lady 
Sellingworth  he  wanted  to  talk  about  her.  And  at  that  moment 
his  obscure  irritation  made  him  turn  towards  youth.  Old  age 
had  cheated  him.  Well,  he  was  young;  he  would  seek  con- 
solation ! 

At  Claridge's  he  inquired  for  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  and  was  told 
she  was  out,  had  been  out  since  the  morning.  Craven  was 
pulling  his  card-case  out  of  his  pocket  when  he  heard  a  voice 
say:  "Are  therfe  any  letters  for  me?"  He  swung  round  and 
there  stood  Miss  Van  Tuyn  quite  near  him.  For  an  instant 
she  did  not  see  him,  and  he  had  time  to  note  that  she  looked 
even  unusually  vivid  and  brilliant.  An  attendant  handed  her 
some  letters.    She  took  them,  turned  and  saw  Craven. 

"I  had  just  asked  for  you,"  he  said,  taking  off  his  hat. 

"Oh !    How  nice  of  you !" 

Her  eyes  were  shining.    He  felt  a  controlled  excitement  in 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  297 

her.  Her  face  seemed  to  be  trying  to  tell  something  which  her 
mind  would  not  choose  to  tell.  He  wondered  what  it  was,  this 
secret  which  he  divined. 

"Come  upstairs  and  we'll  have  a  talk  in  my  sitting-room." 

She  looked  at  him  narrowly,  he  thought,  as  they  went  together 
to  the  lift.  She  seemed  to  have  a  little  less  self-possession  than 
usual,  even  to  be  slightly  self-conscious  and  because  of  that 
watchful. 

When  they  were  in  her  sitting-room  she  took  oflF  her  hat,  as  if 
tired,  put  it  on  a  table  and  sat  down  by  the  fire. 

"I've  been  out  all  day,"  she  said. 

"Yes  ?     Are  you  still  having  painting  lessons  ?" 

"That's  it — painting  lessons.    Dick  is  an  extraordinary  man." 

"You  mean  Dick  Garstin.    I  don't  know  him." 

"He's  absolutely  unscrupulous,  but  a  genius.  I  believe  genius 
always  is  unscrupulous.  I  am  sure  of  it.  It  cannot  be  anything 
else." 

"That's  a  pity." 

"I  don't  know  that  it  is." 

"But  how  does  Dick  Garstin  show  his  unscrupulousness  ?" 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  looked  suddenly  wary. 

"Oh — in  all  sorts  of  ways.  He  uses  people.  He  looks  on 
people  as  mere  material.  He  doesn't  care  for  their  feelings. 
He  doesn't  care  what  happens  to  them.  If  he  gets  out  of  them 
what  he  wants  it's  enough.  After  that  they  may  go  to  perdition, 
and  he  wouldn't  stretch  out  a  finger  to  save  them." 

"What  a  delightful  individual !" 

"Ah ! — you  don't  understand  genius !" 

Craven  felt  rather  nettled.  He  cared  a  good  deal  for  the 
arts,  and  had  no  wish  to  be  set  among  the  Philistines, 

"And — do  you  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  I  think  so.  I'm  not  creative,  but  I'm  very  comprehend- 
ing. Artists  of  all  kinds  feel  that  instinctively.  That's  why 
they  come  round  me  in  Paris." 

"Yes,  you  do  understand!"  he  acknowledged,  remembering 
her  enthusiasm  at  the  theatre.  "But  I  think  you  are  unscrupu- 
lous, too." 

He  said  it  hardily,  looking  straight  at  her,  and  wondering 
what  she  had  been  doing  that  afternoon  before  she  arrived  at 
the  hotel. 


298  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

She  smiled,  making  her  eyes  narrow. 

"Then  perhaps  I  am  half-way  to  genius." 

"Would  you  be  willing  to  sacrifice  all  the  moral  qualities  if 
you  could  have  genius  in  exchange?" 

"You  can't  expect  me  to  say  so.  But  it  would  be  grand  to 
have  power  over  men." 

"You  have  that  already." 

She  looked  at  him  satirically. 

"Do  you  know  you're  a  terrible  humbug?"  she  said. 

"And  are  not  you  ?" 

"No ;  I  think  I  show  myself  very  much  as  I  really  am." 

"Can  a  woman  do  that  ?"  he  said,  with  sudden  moodiness. 

"It  depends.    Mrs.  Ackroyde  can  and  Lady  Wrackley  can't." 

"And — Lady  Sellingworth  ?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  afraid  she  is  a  bit  of  a  humbug,"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn, 
without  venom. 

"I  wonder  when  she'll  be  back?" 

"Back?    Where  from?" 

"Surely  you  know  she  has  gone  abroad  ?" 

The  look  of  surprise  on  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  face  was  so  obvi- 
ously genuine  that  Craven  added : 

"You  didn't  ?    Well,  she  has  gone  away  for  some  time." 

"Whereto?" 

"Somewhere  on  the  Riviera,  I  believe.  Probably  Cap  Martin. 
But  letters  are  not  to  be  forwarded." 

"At  this  time  of  year !    Has  she  gone  away  alone  ?'* 

"I  suppose  so." 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  looked  at  him  with  a  sort  of  cold,  almost 
hostile  shrewdness. 

"And  she  told  you  she  was  going?" 

"Why  should  she  tell  me?'"  he  said,  with  a  hint  of  defiance. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  left  that  at  once. 

"So  Adela  has  run  away !"  she  said. 

She  sat  for  a  moment  quite  still,  like  one  considering  some- 
thing carefully. 

"But  she  will  come  back,"  she  said  presently,  looking  up  at 
him,  "bringing  her  sheaves  with  her." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Don't  you  remember — in  the  Bible  ?" 

"But  what  has  that  to  do  with  Lady  Sellingworth  ?" 


CHAPTER  1  DECEMBER  LOVE  299 

"Perhaps  you'll  understand  when  she  comes  back." 

"I  am  really  quite  in  the  dark,"  he  said,  with  obvious  sin- 
cerity. "And  it's  nothing  to  me  whether  Lady  Sellingworth 
comes  back  or  stops  away." 

"I  thought  you  joined  with  me  in  adoring  her." 

"Adoration  isn't  the  word.     And  you  know  it." 

"And  letters  are  not  to  be  forwarded  ?"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn. 

"I  heard  so." 

"Ah !  when  you  went  to  call  on  her !" 

"Now  you  are  merely  guessing !" 

"It  must  be  terrible  to  be  old !"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  with  a 
change  of  manner.  "Just  think  of  going  off  alone  to  the  Riviera 
in  the  autumn  at  the  age  of  sixty!  Beauties  ought  to  die  at 
fifty.  Plain  women  can  live  to  a  hundred  if  they  like,  and  it 
doesn't  really  matter.  Their  tragedy  is  not  much  worse  then 
than  it  is  at  thirty-five.  But  beauties  should  never  live  beyond 
fifty — at  the  very  latest." 

"Then  you  must  commit  suicide  at  that  age." 

"Thank  you.    The  old  women  in  hotels !" 

She  shivered,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  her  body  shook 
naturally,  as  if  it  couldn't  help  shaking. 

"But — remember — she'll  come  back  with  her  sheaves !"  she 
added,  looking  at  him.  "And  then  the  'old  guard'  will  fall  upon 
her." 

For  a  moment  she  looked  cruel,  and  though  he  did  not  under- 
stand her  meaning  Craven  realized  that  she  would  not  have 
much  pity  for  Lady  Sellingworth  in  misfortune.  But  Lady 
Sellingworth  was  cruel,  too,  had  been  cruel  to  him.  And  he  saw 
humanity  without  tenderness,  teeth  and  claws  at  work,  bar- 
barity coming  to  its  own  through  the  varnish. 

He  only  said : 

"I  may  be  very  stupid,  but  I  don't  understand." 

And  then  he  changed  the  subject  of  conversation.  Miss  Van 
Tuyn  became  gradually  nicer  to  him,  but  he  felt  that  she  still 
cherished  a  faint  hostility  to  him.  Perhaps  she  thought  he 
regarded  her  as  a  substitute.  And  was  not  that  really  the  fact  ? 
He  tried  to  sweep  the  hostility  away.  He  laid  himself  out  to 
be  charming  to  her.  The  Lady  Sellingworth  episode  was  over. 
He  would  give  himself  to  a  different  side  of  his  nature,  a  side 
to  which  Miss  Van  Tuyn  appealed.     She  did  not  encourage 


300  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

him  at  first,  and  he  was  driven  to  force  the  note  slightly.  When 
he  went  away  they  had  arranged  to  play  golf  together,  to  dine 
together  one  night  at  the  Bella  Napoli.  It  was  he  who  had 
suggested,  even  urged  these  diversions.  For  she  had  almost 
made  him  plead  to  her,  had  seemed  oddly  doubtful  about  seeing 
more  of  him  in  intimacy.  And  when  he  left  her  he  was  half 
angry  with  himself  for  making  such  a  fuss  about  trifles.  But 
the  truth  was — and  perhaps  she  suspected  it — that  he  was  trying 
to  escape  from  depression,  caused  by  a  sense  of  injury,  through 
an  adventure.  He  felt  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  great  physical  attrac- 
tion, and  just  then  he  wished  that  it  would  overwhelm  him.  If 
it  did  he  would  soon  cease  from  minding  what  Lady  Selling- 
worth  had  done.    A  certain  recklessness  possessed  him. 

He  dined  with  a  friend  at  the  club  and  stayed  there  rather 
late.  When  he  was  leaving  about  half  past  eleven  Braybrooke 
dropped  in  after  a  party,  and  he  told  Braybrooke  of  Lady 
Sellingworth's  departure  for  the  Continent.  The  world's  gov- 
erness showed  even  more  surprise  than  Miss  Van  Tuyn  had 
shown.  He  had  had  no  idea  that  Adela  Sellingworth  was  going 
abroad.  She  must  have  decided  on  it  very  abruptly.  He  had 
seen  nothing  in  the  Morning  Post.  Had  she  gone  alone?  And 
no  letters  to  be  forwarded  !  Dear  me !  It  was  all  very  odd  and 
unexpected.  And  she  had  gone  on  the  Riviera  at  this  time  of 
year !  But  it  was  a  desert ;  not  a  soul  one  knew  would  be  there. 
The  best  hotels  were  not  even  open,  he  believed. 

As  he  made  his  comments  he  observed  Craven  closely  with  his 
small  hazel  eyes,  but  the  young  man  showed  no  feeling,  and 
Braybrooke  began  to  think  that  really  perhaps  he  had  made  a 
mountain  out  of  a  molehill,  that  he  had  done  Adela  Selling- 
worth  an  injustice.  If  she  had  really  been  inclined  to  any  folly 
about  his  young  friend  she  would  certainly  not  have  left  London 
in  this  mysterious  manner. 

"I  suppose  she  let  you  know  she  was  going?"  he  hazarded. 

"Oh,  no.  I  happened  to  call  and  the  footman  gave  me  the 
news." 

"I  hope  she  isn't  ill,"  said  Braybrooke  with  sudden  gravity. 

"Ill  ?     Why  should  you  think ?" 

"There  are  women  who  hate  it  to  be  known  that  they  are  ill. 
Catherine  Bewdley  went  away  without  a  word  and  was  operated 
on  at  Lausanne,  and  not  one  of  us  knew  of  it  till  it  was  all  over. 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  301 

I  don't  quite  like  the  look  of  things.  Letters  not  being  for- 
warded— ha !" 

"But  near  Monte  Carlo !" 

"Is  it  near  Monte  Carlo  ?" 

He  pursed  his  lips  and  went  into  the  club  looking  grave, 
while  Craven  went  out  into  the  night.  It  was  black  and  damp. 
The  pavement  seemed  sweating.  The  hands  of  both  autumn 
and  winter  were  laid  upon  London.  But  soon  the  hands  of 
autumn  would  fail  and  winter  would  have  the  huge  city  as  its 
possession. 

"/jit  Monte  Carlo?" 

Braybrooke's  question  echoed  in  Craven's  mind.  Could  he 
have  done  Lady  Sellingworth  a  wrong?  Was  there  perhaps 
something  behind  her  sudden  departure  in  silence  which  alto- 
gether excused  it?  She  might  be  ill  and  have  disappeared 
without  a  word  to  some  doctor's  clinic,  as  Braybrooke  had  sug- 
gested. Women  sometimes  had  heroic  silences.  Craven  thought 
she  could  be  heroic.  There  was  something  very  strong  in  her, 
he  thought,  combined  perhaps  with  many  weaknesses.  He 
wished  he  knew  where  she  was,  what  she  was  doing,  whom  she 
was  with  or  whether  she  was  alone.  His  desire  trailed  after  her 
against  his  will.  Undoubtedly  he  missed  her,  and  felt  oddly 
homeless  now  she  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  II 

MISS  VAN  TUYN  believed  that  things  were  coming  her 
way  after  all.  Young  Craven  was  suddenly  released,  and 
another  very  strong  interest  was  dawning  in  her  life.  Craven 
had  not  been  wrong  in  thinking  that  she  was  secretly  excited 
when  he  met  her  in  the  hall  at  Claridge's.  She  had  fulfilled 
her  promise  to  Dick  Garstin,  driven  to  fulfilment  by  his  taunt. 
No  one  should  say  with  truth  that  she  was  afraid  of  anyone, 
man  or  woman.  She  would  prove  to  Garstin  that  she  was  not 
afraid  of  the  man  he  was  trying  to  paint.  So,  on  the  day  of 
their  conversation  in  the  studio,  she  had  left  Glebe  Place  with 
Arabian.  For  the  first  time  she  had  been  alone  with  him  for 
more  than  a  few  minutes. 

She  had  gone  both  eagerly  and  reluctantly;  reluctantly  be- 
cause there  was  really  something  in  Arabian  which  woke  in  her 
a  sort  of  frail  and  quivering  anxiety  such  as  she  had  never  felt 
before  in  any  man's  company ;  eagerly  because  Garstin  had  put 
into  words  what  had  till  then  been  only  a  suspicion  in  her  mind. 
He  had  told  her  that  Arabian  was  in  love  with  her.  Was  that 
true?  Even  now  she  was  not  sure.  That  was  part  of  the 
reason  why  she  was  not  quite  at  ease  with  Arabian.  She  was 
not  sure  of  anything  about  him  except  that  he  was  marvellously 
handsome.  But  Garstin  was  piercingly  sharp.  What  he  as- 
serted about  anyone  was  usually  the  fact.  He  could  hardly  be 
mistaken.  Yet  how  could  a  woman  be  in  doubt  about  such  a 
thing?    And  she  was  still,  in  spite  of  her  vanity,  in  doubt. 

When  Arabian  had  come  into  the  studio  that  day,  and  had 
seen  the  sketch  of  him  ripped  up  by  the  palette  knife,  he  had 
looked  almost  fierce  for  a  moment.  He  had  turned  towards 
Garstin  with  a  sort  of  hauteur  like  one  demanding,  and  having 
the  right  to  demand,  an  explanation. 

"What's  the  row?"  Garstin  had  said,  with  almost  insolent 
defiance.  "I  destroyed  it  because  it's  damned  bad.  I  hadn't 
got  you." 

302 


CHAPTER  II  DECEMBER  LOVE  303 

And  then  he  had  taken  the  canvas  from  the  easel  and  had 
thrown  it  contemptuously  into  a  corner  of  the  studio. 

Arabian  had  said  nothing,  but  there  had  been  a  cloud  on  his 
face,  and  Miss  Van  Tuyn  had  known  that  he  was  angry,  as  a 
man  is  angry  when  he  sees  a  bit  of  his  property  destroyed  by 
another.  And  she  had  remembered  her  words  to  Arabian,  that 
the  least  sketch  by  Garstin  was  worth  a  good  deal  of  money. 

Surely  Arabian  was  a  greedy  man. 

No  work  had  been  done  in  the  studio  that  morning.  They  had 
sat  and  talked  for  a  while.  Garstin  had  said  most.  He  had 
been  more  agreeable  than  usual,  and  had  explained  to  Arabian, 
rather  as  one  explains  to  a  child,  that  a  worker  in  an  art  is 
sometimes  baffled  for  a  time,  a  writer  by  his  theme,  a  musician 
by  his  floating  and  perhaps  half-nebulous  conception,  a  painter 
by  his  subject.  Then  he  must  wait,  cursing  perhaps,  damning 
his  own  impotence,  dreading  its  continuance.  But  there  is  noth- 
ing else  to  be  done.  Paziensa!  And  he  had  enlarged  upon 
patience.  And  Arabian  had  listened  politely,  had  looked  as  if  he 
were  trying  to  understand. 

"I'll  try  again !"  Garstin  had  said.  "You  must  give  me  time, 
my  boy.    You're  not  in  a  hurry  to  leave  London,  are  you  ?" 

And  then  Miss  Van  Tuyn  had  seen  Arabian's  eyes  turn  to  her 
as  he  had  said,  but  rather  doubtfully : 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  am." 

Garstin's  eyes  had  said  to  her  with  sharp  imperativeness : 

"Keep  him !     You're  not  to  let  him  go !" 

And  she  had  kept  her  promise ;  she  had  gone  away  from  the 
studio  with  Arabian  leaving  Garstin  smiling  at  the  door.  And 
at  that  moment  she  had  almost  hated  Garstin. 

Arabian  had  asked  her  to  lunch  with  him.  She  had  con- 
sented. He  had  suggested  a  cab,  and  the  Savoy  or  the  Carlton, 
or  the  Ritz  if  she  preferred  it.  But  she  had  quickly  replied 
that  she  knew  of  a  small  restaurant  close  to  Sloane  Square  Sta- 
tion where  the  food  was  very  good.  Many  painters  and  writers 
went  there. 

"But  we  are  not  painters  and  writers !"  Arabian  had  said. 

Nevertheless  they  had  gone  there,  and  had  lunched  in  a  quiet 
corner,  and  she  had  left  him  about  three  o'clock. 

On  the  day  of  Craven's  call  at  Claridge's  she  had  been  with 
Arabian  again.     Garstin  had  begun  another  picture,  and  had 


304  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

worked  on  through  the  lunch  hour.  Later  they  had  had  some 
food,  a  sort  of  picnic,  in  the  studio,  and  then  she  had  walked 
away  with  Arabian.  She  had  just  left  him  when  she  met 
Craven  in  the  hall  of  the  hotel.  Garstin  had  not  allowed  either 
her  or  Arabian  to  look  at  what  he  had  done.  He  had.  Miss 
Van  Tuyn  thought,  seemed  unusually  nervous  and  diffident 
about  his  work.  She  did  not  know  how  he  had  got  on,  and 
was  curious.  But  she  was  going  to  dine  with  him  that  night. 
Perhaps  he  would  tell  her  then,  or  perhaps  he  had  only  asked 
her  to  dinner  that  she  might  tell  him  about  Arabian. 

And  in  the  midst  of  all  this  had  come  Craven  with  his 
changed  manner  and  his  news  about  Lady  Sellingworth. 

Decidedly  things  were  taking  a  turn  for  the  better.  To  Miss 
Cronin's  increasingly  plaintive  inquiries  as  to  when  they  would 
return  to  Paris  Miss  Van  Tuyn  gave  evasive  replies.  She  was 
held  in  London,  and  had  almost  forgotten  her  friends  in  Paris. 

She  wondered  why  Adela  had  gone  away  so  abruptly.  Al- 
though she  had  half  hinted  to  Craven  that  she  guessed  the 
reason  of  this  sudden  departure,  and  had  asserted  that  Adela 
would  presently  come  back  bringing  sheaves  with  her,  she  was 
not  at  all  sure  that  her  guess  was  right.  Adela  might  return 
mysteriously  rejuvenated  and  ready  to  plunge  once  more  into 
the  fray,  braving  opinion.  It  might  be  a  case  of  reculer  pour 
mieux  sauter.  On  the  other  hand,  it  might  be  a  flight  from 
danger.  Miss  Van  Tuyn  was  practically  certain  that  Adela 
had  fallen  in  love  with  Alick  Craven.  Was  she  being  sensible 
and  deliberately  keeping  out  of  his  way,  or  was  she  being  mad 
and  trying  to  be  made  young  at  sixty  in  order  to  return  armed 
for  his  captivation.  Time  would  show.  Meanwhile  the  ground 
was  unexpectedly  clear.  Craven  was  seeking  her,  and  she,  by 
Garstin's  orders  and  in  the  strict  service  of  art,  was  pushing 
her  way  towards  a  sort  of  intimacy  with  Arabian.  But  the 
difference  between  the  two  men ! 

Craven's  visit  to  Claridge's  immediately  after  the  hours  spent 
with  Arabian  had  emphasized  for  her  the  mystery  of  the  latter. 
Her  understanding  of  Craven  underlined  her  ignorance  about 
Arabian.  The  confidence  she  felt  in  Craven — a  confidence 
quite  independent  of  his  liking,  or  not  liking  her — marked  for 
her  the  fact  that  she  had  no  confidence  in  Arabian.  Craven  was 
just  an  English  gentleman.     He  might  have  done  all  sorts  of 


CHAPTER  II  DECEMBER  LOVE  305 

things,  but  he  was  obviously  a  thoroughly  straight  and  decent 
fellow.  A  woman  had  only  to  glance  at  him  to  know  the 
things  he  could  never  do.  But  when  she  looked  at  Arabian — 
well,  then,  the  feeling  was  rather  that  Arabian  might  do  any- 
thing. Craven  belonged  obviously  to  a  class,  although  he  had 
a  strong  and  attractive  individuality.  English  diplomacy  pre- 
sented many  men  of  his  type  to  the  embassies  in  foreign  coun- 
tries. But  to  what  class  did  Arabian  belong?  Even  Dick 
Garstin  was  quite  comprehensible,  in  spite  of  his  extraordinary 
manners  and  almost  violent  originality.  He  was  a  Bohemian, 
with  touches  of  genius,  touches  of  vulgarity.  There  were  others 
less  than  him,  yet  not  wholly  unlike  him,  men  of  the  studios,  of 
the  painting  schools,  smelling  as  it  were  of  Chelsea  and  the 
Quartier  Latin.  But  Arabian  seemed  to  stand  alone.  When 
with  him  Miss  Van  Tuyn  could  not  tell  what  type  of  man  must 
inevitably  be  his  natural  comrade,  what  must  inevitably  be  his 
natural  environment.  She  could  see  him  at  Monte  Carlo,  in  the 
restaurants  of  Paris,  in  the  Galleria  at  Naples,  in  Cairo,  in 
Tunis,  in  a  dozen  places.  But  she  could  not  see  him  at  home. 
Was  he  the  eternal  traveller,  with  plenty  of  money,  a  taste  for 
luxury  and  the  wandering  spirit?  Or  had  he  some  purpose 
which  drove  him  about  the  world? 

After  Craven  had  left  her  that  day  at  Claridge's  she  had  a 
sudden  wish  to  bring  him  and  Craven  together,  to  see  how  they 
got  on  together,  to  hear  Craven's  opinion  of  Arabian.  Perhaps 
she  could  manage  a  meeting  between  the  two  men  presently. 
Why  not? 

Arabian  had  not  attempted  to  make  love  to  her  on  either  of 
the  two  occasions  when  she  had  been  with  him  alone.  Only  his 
eyes  had  seemed  to  tell  her  that  he  admired  her  very  much,  that 
he  wanted  something  of  her.  His  manner  had  been  non- 
committal.   He  had  seemed  to  be  on  his  guard. 

There  was  something  in  Arabian  which  suggested  to  Miss 
Van  Tuyn  suspicion.  He  was  surely  a  man  who,  despite  his 
"open"  look,  his  bold  features,  his  enormously  self-possessed 
manner,  was  suspicious  of  others.  He  had  little  confidence  in 
others.  She  was  almost  certain  of  that.  There  was  nothing 
cat-like  in  his  appearance,  yet  at  moments  when  with  him  she 
thought  of  a  tomcat,  of  its  swiftness,  suppleness,  gliding  ener- 
gies and  watchful  reserve.     She  suspected  claws  in  his  velvet, 


906  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

too.  And  yet  surely  he  looked  honest.  She  thought  his  look 
was  honest,  but  that  his  "atmosphere"  was  not.  Often  he  had 
a  straight  look — she  could  not  deny  that  to  herself.  He  could 
gaze  at  you  and  let  you  return  his  gaze.  And  yet  she  had  not 
been  able  to  read  what  he  was  in  his  eyes. 

He  was  not  very  easy  to  get  on  with  somehow,  although  there 
was  a  great  deal  of  charm  in  his  manner  and  although  he  was 
full  of  self-confidence  and  evidently  accustomed  to  women. 
But  to  what  women  was  he  accustomed?  That  was  a  question 
which  Miss  Van  Tuyn  asked  herself.  Craven  was  obviously  at 
home  in  the  society  of  ordinary  ladies  and  of  women  of  the 
world.  You  knew  that  somehow  directly  you  were  with  him. 
But — Arabian  ? 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  could  see  him  with  smart  cocottes.  He 
would  surely  be  very  much  at  ease  with  them.  And  many  of 
them  would  be  ready  to  adore  such  a  man.  For  fehere  was 
probably  a  strain  of  brutality  somewhere  under  his  charm. 
And  they  would  love  that.  She  could  even  see  him,  or  fancied 
that  she  could,  with  street  women.  For  there  was  surely  a  touch 
of  the  street  in  him.  He  must  have  been  bred  up  in  cities.  He 
did  not  belong  to  any  fields  or  any  woods  that  she  knew  or  knew 
of.  And — other  women?  Well,  she  was  numbered  among  those 
other  women.  And  how  was  he  with  her  so  far?  Charming, 
easy,  bold — yes;  but  also  reserved,  absolutely  non-committal. 
She  was  not  at  all  sure  whether  she  was  going  to  be  of  much 
use  to  Dick  Garstin,  except  perhaps  in  her  own  person.  Instead 
of  delivering  to  him  the  man  he  wanted  to  come  at  perhaps  she 
would  end  by  delivering  a  woman  worth  painting — herself. 

For  there  was  something  in  Arabian  that  was  certainly  dan- 
gerous to  her,  something  in  him  that  excited  her,  that  lifted  her 
into  an  unusual  vitality.  She  did  not  quite  know  what  it  was. 
But  she  felt  it  definitely.  When  she  was  with  him  alone  she 
seemed  to  be  in  an  adventure  through  which  a  current  of  definite 
danger  was  flowing.  No  other  man  had  ever  brought  a  sensa- 
tion like  that  into  her  life,  although  she  had  met  many  types  of 
men  in  Paris,  had  known  well  talented  men  of  acknowledged 
bad  character,  reckless  of  the  convenances,  men  who  snapped 
their  fingers  at  all  the  prejudices  of  the  orthodox,  and  who  made 
no  distinction  between  virtues  and  vices,  following  only  their 
own  inclinations. 


CHAPTER  n  DECEMBER  LOVE  307 

Such  a  man  was  Dick  Garstin.  Yet  Miss  Van  Tuyn  had 
never  with  him  had  the  sensation  of  being  near  to  something 
dangerous  which  she  had  with  Arabian.  Yet  Arabian  was 
scrupulously  poHte,  was  quiet,  almost  gentle  in  manner,  and  had 
a  great  deal  of  charm. 

She  remembered  his  following  her  in  the  street  at  night. 
What  would  he  be  like  with  women  of  that  sort?  Would  his 
gentleness  be  in  evidence  with  them,  or  would  a  totally  different 
individual  rise  to  the  surface  of  him,  a  beast  of  prey  perhaps 
with  the  jungle  in  its  eyes? 

Something  in  her  shrank  from  Arabian  as  she  had  never  yet 
shrunk  from  a  human  being.  But  something  else  was  fasci- 
nated by  him.  She  had  the  American  woman's  outlook  on  men. 
She  expected  men  to  hold  their  own  in  the  world  with  other 
men,  to  be  self-possessed,  cool-headed,  and  bold  in  their  careers, 
but  to  be  subservient  in  their  relations  with  women.  To  be 
ruled  by  a  husband  would  have  seemed  to  her  to  be  quite  un- 
natural, to  rule  him  quite  natural.  She  felt  sure  that  no  woman 
would  be  likely  to  rule  Arabian.  She  felt  sure  that  his  outlook 
on  women  was  absolutely  unlike  that  of  the  American  man. 
When  she  looked  at  him  she  thought  of  the  rape  of  the  Sabines. 
Surely  he  was  a  primitive  under  his  mask  of  almost  careful 
smartness  and  conventionality.  There  was  something  primitive 
in  her,  too,  and  she  became  aware  of  that  now.  Hitherto  she 
had  been  inclined  to  believe  that  she  was  essentially  complex, 
cerebral,  free  from  any  trace  of  sentimentality,  quiveringly  re- 
sponsive to  the  appealing  voices  of  the  arts,  healthily  responsive 
to  the  joys  of  athleticism  almost  in  the  way  of  a  Greek  youth 
in  the  early  days  of  the  world,  but  that  she  was  free  from  all 
taint  of  animalism.  Men  had  told  her  that,  in  spite  of  her 
charm  and  the  fascination  they  felt  in  her,  she  lacked  one  thing 
— what  they  chose  to  call  temperament.  That  was  why,  they 
said,  she  was  able  to  live  as  she  did,  audaciously,  even  eccen- 
trically, without  being  kicked  out  of  society  as  "impossible." 
She  was  saved  from  disaster  by  her  interior  coldness.  She 
lived  by  the  brain  rather  than  by  the  senses.  And  she  had 
taken  this  verdict  to  herself  as  praise.  She  had  felt  refinement 
in  her  freedom  from  ordinary  desire.  She  had  been  proud  of 
worshipping  beauty  without  any  coarse  longing.  To  her  her 
bronzes  had  typified  something  that  she  valued  in  herself.    Her 


308  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

immense  vanity  had  not  been  blended  with  those  passions  which 
shake  many  women,  which  had  devastated  Lady  SelHngAvorth. 
A  coarseness  in  her  mind  made  her  love  to  be  physically  desired 
by  men,  but  no  coarseness  of  body  made  her  desire  them.  And 
she  had  supposed  that  she  represented  the  ultra  modern  type  of 
woman,  the  woman  who  without  being  cold — she  would  not 
acknowledge  that  she  was  cold — was  free  from  the  slavish 
instinct  which  makes  all  the  ordinary  women  sisters  in  the 
vulgar  bosom  of  nature. 

But  since  she  had  seen  Arabian  she  felt  less  highly  civiHzed ; 
she  knew  that  in  her,  too,  lurked  the  horrible  primitive.  And 
that  troubled  and  at  the  same  time  fascinated  her. 

Was  that  why  when  she  had  seen  Arabian  for  the  first  time 
she  had  resolved  to  get  to  know  him?  She  had  called  him  a 
living  bronze,  but  she  had  thought  of  him  from  the  first, 
perhaps,  with  ardour  as  flesh  and  blood. 

And  yet  at  moments  he  repelled  her.  She,  who  was  so 
audacious,  did  not  want  to  show  herself  with  him  at  the  Ritz, 
to  walk  down  Piccadilly  with  him  in  daylight.  As  she  had  said 
to  Dick  Garstin,  an  atmosphere  seemed  to  hang  about  Arabian — 
an  unsafe  atmosphere.  She  did  not  know  where  she  was  in  it. 
She  lost  her  bearings,  could  not  see  her  way,  heard  steps  and 
voices  that  sounded  strange.  And  the  end  of  it  all  was — "I 
don't  know."  When  she  thought  of  Arabian  always  that  sen- 
tence was  in  her  mind — "I  don't  know." 

She  was  strangely  excited.  And  now  Craven  came  to  her. 
And  he  attracted  her,  too,  but  in  such  a  different  way ! 

Suddenly  London  was  interesting !  And  "I  don't  know  when 
we  shall  go  back  to  Paris !"  she  said  to  Miss  Cronin. 

"Is  it  the  Wallace  Collection,  Beryl?"  murmured  "Old 
Fanny,"  with  plaintive  suspicion  over  her  cup  of  camomile  tea. 

"Yes,  it's  the  Wallace  Collection,"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn. 

And  she  went  away  to  dress  for  her  dinner  with  Dick  Garstin. 

She  met  him  at  a  tiny  and  very  French  restaurant  in.  Conduit 
Street,  where  the  cooking  was  absolutely  first  rate,  where  there 
was  no  sound  of  music,  and  where  very  few  English  people 
went.  There  were  only  some  eight  or  ten  tables  in  the  cosy, 
warm  little  room,  and  when  Miss  Van  Tuyn  entered  it  there 
were  not  a  dozen  people  dining.  Dick  Garstin  was  not  there. 
It  was  just  like  him  to  be  late  and  to  keep  a  woman  waiting. 


CHAPTER  n  DECEMBER  LOVE  309 

But  he  had  engaged  a  table  in  the  corner  of  the  room  on  the 
right,  away  from  the  window.  And  Miss  Van  Tuyn  was  shown 
to  it  by  a  waiter,  and  sat  down.  On  the  way  she  had  bought 
The  Westminster  Gazette.  She  opened  it,  lit  a  cigarette,  and 
began  to  glance  at  the  news.  There  happened  to  be  a  letter 
from  Paris  in  which  the  writer  described  a  new  play  which  had 
just  been  produced  in  an  outlying  theatre.  Miss  Van  Tuyn 
read  the  account.  She  began  reading  in  a  casual  mood,  but 
almost  immediately  all  her  attention  was  grasped  and  held  tight. 
She  forgot  where  she  was,  let  her  cigarette  go  out,  did  not  see 
Garstin  when  he  came  in  from  the  street.  When  he  came  up 
and  laid  a  hand  on  her  arm  she  started  violently. 

"Who's— Dick !" 

An  angry  look  came  into  her  face. 

"Why  did  you  do  that?" 

"What's  the  matter?" 

He  stared  at  her  almost  as  if  fascinated. 

"By  Jove  .  .  .  you  look  wonderful !" 

"I  forbid  you  to  touch  me  like  that!  I  hate  being  pawed, 
and  you  know  it." 

He  glanced  at  the  pale  green  paper. 

"The  sea-green  incorruptible!" 

He  stretched  out  his  hand,  but  she  quickly  moved  the  paper 
out  of  his  reach. 

"Let  us  dine.    You've  kept  me  waiting  for  ages." 

Garstin  sent  a  look  to  his  waiter,  and  sat  down  opposite  to 
Miss  Van  Tuyn  with  his  back  to  the  room. 

"I'll  buy  a  Westminster  going  back,"  he  observed.  "Bisque  1 
Bring  a  bottle  of  the  Lanson,  Raoul." 

He  addressed  the  waiter  in  French. 

"Oui,  m'sieu." 

"Well  iced !" 

"Certainement,  Monsieur  Garstin." 

"Better  tempered  now.  Beryl  ?" 

"You  always  make  out  that  I  have  the  temper  of  a  fiend.  I 
hate  being  startled.     That's  all." 

"You're  awfully  nervy  these  days." 

"I  think  you  are  the  cruellest  man  I  know.  H  it  weren't  for 
your  painting  no  one  would  have  anything  to  do  with  you." 

"I  shouldn't  care." 


810  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

"Yes,  you  would.    You  love  being  worshipped  and  run  after." 

"Good  s©up,  isn't  it?" 

She  made  no  answer  to  this.    After  a  silence  she  said: 

"Why  were  you  so  late?" 

"To  give  you  time  to  study  the  evening  paper." 

"Were  you  working  ?" 

"No — cursing." 

"Why?" 

"This  damned  portrait's  going  to  be  no  good  either  1" 

"Then  you'd  better  give  it  up." 

He  shot  a  piercing  glance  at  her. 

"It  isn't  my  way  to  give  things  up  once  I've  put  my  hand  to 
them,"  he  observed  drily.  "And  you  seem  to  forget  that  you 
put  me  up  to  it.'* 

"That  was  only  a  whim.    You  didn't  take  it  seriously." 

"I  do  now,  though." 

"But  if  you're  baffled?" 

"For  the  moment.  I've  nearly  always  found  that  the  best 
work  comes  hardest.  One  has  to  sweat  blood  before  one  reaches 
the  big  thing.  I  may  begin  on  him  half  a  dozen  times,  cut  him 
to  ribbons  half  a  dozen  times — and  then  do  a  masterpiece." 

"I  don't  think  he'll  wait  long  enough.  Another  stab  of  the 
palette  knife  and  you'll  probably  see  the  last  of  him." 

"Ah— he  didn't  like  it,  did  he?" 

"He  was  furious." 

"Did  he  say  anything  about  it  afterwards  to  you  ?" 

"Not  a  word.    But  he  was  furious.    You  stabbed  money !" 

Garstin  smiled  appreciatively.  Raoul  was  pouring  out  the 
champagne.  Garstin  lifted  his  glass  and  set  it  down  half 
empty. 

"Had  you  told  him " 

He  paused. 

"He  knows  everything  you  do  is  worth  money,  a  lot  of 
money." 

"He's  got  the  hairy  heel.  I  always  knew  that.  We'll  get  to 
his  secret  yet,  you  and  I  between  us." 

"I  am  not  sure  that  I  can  stay  over  here  very  much  longer, 
Dick.  Paris  is  my  home,  and  I  can't  waste  my  money  at 
Claridge's  for  ever." 

"If  you  like  I'll  pay  the  bill." 


CHAPTER  II  DECEMBER  LOVE  311 

She  reddened. 

"Do  you  really  think  that  if  I  were  to  go  he — Arabian " 

"He'd  follow  you  by  the  next  boat." 

"I'm  sure  he  wouldn't." 

"You're  not  half  so  vain  as  I  thought  you  were." 

"When  we  are  alone  he  never  attempts  to  make  love  to  me. 
We  talk  platitudes.    I  know  him  no  better  than  I  did  before." 

"He's  a  wary  bird.  But  the  dawn  must  come  and  with  it  his 
crow." 

"Well,  Dick,  I  tell  you  frankly  that  I  may  go  back  to  Paris 
any  day." 

"I  knew  you  were  nervy  to-night.  I  wish  I  could  find  a 
woman  who  was  a  match  for  a  man  in  the  nervous  system. 
But  there  isn't  one.  That's  why  we  are  so  superior.  We've  got 
steel  where  you've  all  got  fiddle  strings.    Raoul !" 

He  drank  again  and  ate  heartily.  He  was  a  voracious  eater 
at  times.  But  there  were  days  when  he  ate  nothing  and  worked 
incessantly. 

They  had  begun  dinner  late,  and  the  little  restaurant  was 
getting  empty.  Three  sets  of  diners  had  gone  out  since  they 
had  sat  down.  The  waiters  were  clearing  some  of  the  tables. 
A  family  party,  obviously  French,  lingered  at  a  round  table  in 
the  middle  of  the  room  over  their  coffee.  A  pale  man  sat  alone 
in  a  corner  eating  pressed  duck  with  greedy  avidity.  And 
Raoul,  leaving  Miss  Van  Tuyn  and  Garstin,  placed  a  large  vase 
of  roses  on  a  table  close  to  the  window  near  the  door. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  happened  to  see  this  action,  and  a  vagrant 
thought  slipped  through  her  mind.  "Then  we  are  not  the 
last!" 

"My  nerves  are  certainly  not  fiddle  strings,"  she  said.  "But 
I  have  interests  which  pull  me  towards  Paris." 

"Greater  interests  here.  Have  some  more  champagne! 
Raoul!" 

"M'sieu !" 

"You  can't  deceive  me.  Beryl." 

"Your  pose  of  omniscience  bores  me.  Apart  from  your  gift 
you're  a  very  ordinary  man,  Dick,  if  you  could  only  be  brought 
to  see  it." 

"Arabian  fascinates  you." 

"He  doesn't." 


312  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

"And  that's  why  you're  afraid  of  him.  You're  afraid  of  his 
power  because  you  don't  trust  him.  He's  doing  a  lot  for  you. 
You're  waking  up.  You're  becoming  interesting.  A  few  days 
ago  you  were  only  a  beautiful  spoilt  American  girl,  as  cool  and 
as  hard  as  ice,  brainy,  vain,  and  totally  without  temperament  as 
far  as  one  could  see.  Your  torch  was  unlit.  Now  this  black- 
guard's put  the  match  to  it." 

"What  nonsense,  Dick !" 

"Raoul!" 

"M'sieu?" 

"That's  all  very  well.  But  my  intention  is  to  paint  him,  not 
you.  Why  don't  you  get  to  work  hard?  Why  don't  you  put 
your  back  into  it?" 

"This  is  beyond  bearing,  Dick,  even  from  you !" 

She  was  looking  really  indignant.  Her  cheeks  and  forehead 
had  reddened,  her  eyes  seemed  to  spit  fire  at  him,  and  her  hands 
trembled. 

"Your  absolute  lack  of  decent  consideration  is — you're 
canaille!  Because  you're  impotent  to  paint  I  am  to — ^no,  it's 
too  much !  Canaille !  Canaille !  That's  what  you  are !  I  shall 
go  back  to  Paris.     I  shall " 

Suddenly  she  stopped  speaking  and  stared.  The  red  faded 
out  of  her  face.  A  curiously  conscious  and  intent  look  came 
into  her  eyes.  She  began  to  move  her  head  as  if  in  recognition 
of  some  one,  stopped  and  sat  rigid,  pressing  her  lips  together 
till  her  mouth  had  a  hard  grim  line.  Garstin,  who  could  only 
see  her  and  the  wall  at  her  back,  watched  all  this  with  sharp 
interest,  then,  growing  curious,  turned  round.  As  he  did  so 
he  saw  a  tall,  very  handsome  dark  girl,  who  had  certainly  not 
been  in  the  room  when  he  entered  it,  going  slowly,  and  as  if 
reluctantly,  towards  the  doorway.  She  was  obviousVy  a  woman 
of  the  demi-monde  and  probably  French.  As  she  reached  the 
door  she  turned  her  smart,  impudent  head  and  covered  Miss 
Van  Tuyn  with  an  appraising  look,  cold,  keen,  vicious  in  its 
detached  intensity,  a  look  such  as  only  a  woman  can  send  to 
another  woman. 

Then  she  went  out,  followed  by  Raoul,  who  seemed  rather 
agitated,  and  whose  back  looked  appealing. 

"Black  hair  with  blue  lights  in  it !"  said  Garstin.  "What  a 
beauty !" 


CHAPTER  II  DECEMBER  LOVE  313 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  sighed. 

"Why  wouldn't  she  stay  ?" 

He  was  still  sitting  half  turned  towards  the  room. 

"A  table  with  flowers  all  ready  for  her!  And  she  goes! 
Was  she  alone  ?    Ah — who  was  with  her  ?" 

"Arabian !"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  coldly. 

"And  he " 

"He  saw  us !" 

"And  took  her  away !  What  a  lark !  Too  timid  to  face  us ! 
The  naughty  boy  caught  out  in  an  escapade!  I'll  chaff  him 
to-morrow.  All  their  dinner  wasted,  and  I'll  bet  it  was  a  good 
one." 

He  chuckled  over  his  wine. 

"Did  he  know  that  you  saw  him  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  He  was  behind  her.  He  barely  showed  him- 
self, saw  us  and  vanished.  He  must  have  called  to  her,  beck- 
oned from  the  hall.    She  went  quite  up  to  the  table." 

"So — you've  taught  him  timidity!  He  doesn't  want  you  to 
know  of  his  under  life." 

"Oh,  for  heaven's  sake  let  us  talk  of  something  else!"  said 
Miss  Van  Tuyn,  with  an  almost  passionate  note  of  exaspera- 
tion. "You  bore  me,  bore  me,  bore  me  with  this  man!  He 
seems  becoming  an  obsession  with  you.  Paint  him,  for  God's 
sake,  and  then  let  there  be  an  end  of  him  as  far  as  we  are 
concerned.  There  are  lots  of  other  men  better-looking  than  he 
is.  But  once  you  have  taken  an  idea  into  your  head  there  is  no 
peace  until  you  have  worked  it  out  on  canvas.  Genius  it  may 
be,  but  it's  terribly  tiresome  to  everyone  about  you.  Paint  the 
man — and  then  let  him  sink  back  into  the  depths !" 

"Like  a  sea  monster,  eh?" 

"He  is  horrible.     I  always  knew  it." 

"Come,  now !    You  told  me " 

"It  doesn't  matter  what  I  told  you.    He  is  horrible." 

"What !  Just  because  he  comes  out  to  dine  with  a  pretty  girl 
of  a  certain  class?  I  had  no  idea  you  were  such  a  Puritan. 
Raoul!" 

"M'sieu !" 

Garstin  was  evidently  enjoying  himself. 

"I  know  those  women !    Arabian's  catching  it  like  the  devil 


314  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

in  Conduit  Street.  She's  giving  him  something  he'll  remem- 
ber." 

"No !"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  with  hard  emphasis. 

"What  d'you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  Arabian  is  the  sort  of  man  w^ho  can  frighten 
women.  Now  if  you  don't  talk  of  something  else  I  shall  leave 
you  here  alone.    Another  word  on  that  subject  and  I  go !" 

"Tell  me,  Beryl.  What  do  you  really  think  of  Wyndham 
Lewis  ?    You  know  his  portrait  of  Ezra  Pound  ?" 

"Of  course  I  do." 

"Don't  you  think  it's  a  masterpiece?" 

"Do  you?  I  can  never  get  at  your  real  ideas  about  modern 
painting." 

"And  I  thought  I  wrote  them  all  down  in  my  own  pictures." 

"You  certainly  don't  sit  on  the  fence  when  you  paint." 

And  then  they  talked  pictures.  Perhaps  Garstin  at  that 
moment  for  once  laid  himself  out  to  be  charming.  He  could 
fascinate  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  mind  when  he  chose.  She  re- 
spected his  brain.  It  could  lure  her.  As  a  worker  she  secretly 
almost  loved  Garstin,  and  she  believed  that  the  world  would 
remember  him  when  he  was  gone  to  the  shadows  and  the  dust 

Two  champagne  bottles  had  been  emptied  when  they  got  up 
to  go.  The  little  room  was  deserted  and  had  a  look  of  being 
settled  in  for  the  night.  Raoul  took  his  tip  and  yawned  behind 
his  big  yellow  hand.  As  Miss  Van  Tuyn  was  about  to  leave  the 
restaurant  he  bent  down  to  the  floor  and  picked  up  a  paper 
which  had  fallen  against  the  wall  near  her  seat. 

"Madame "  he  began. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn,  who  was  on  her  way  to  the  door,  did  not 
hear  him,  and  Garstin  swiftly  and  softly  took  the  paper  and 
slipped  it  into  the  pocket  of  his  overcoat.  When  he  had  said 
good-bye  to  Beryl  he  went  back  to  Glebe  Place.  He  mounted 
the  stairs  to  the  studio  on  the  first  floor,  turned  on  the  lights, 
went  to  the  Spanish  cabinet,  poured  himself  out  a  drink,  lit  one 
of  the  black  cigars,  then  sat  down  in  a  worn  arm-chair,  put  his 
feet  on  the  sofa,  and  unfolded  The  Westminster  Gazette. 
What  had  she  been  reading  so  intently?  What  was  it  in  the 
paper  that  had  got  on  her  nerves  ? 

The  political  news,  the  weather,  the  leading  article,  notes, 
reviews  of  new  books.     He  looked  carefully  at  each  of  the 


CHAPTER  II  DECEMBER  LOVE  315 

reviews.  Not  there !  Then  he  began  to  read  the  news  of  the 
day,  but  found  nothing  which  seemed  to  him  capable  of  grip- 
ping Beryl's  attention.  Finally,  he  turned  to  the  last  page  but 
one  of  the  paper,  saw  the  heading,  "Our  Paris  Letter,"  and 
gave  the  thrush's  call  softly.  Paris — Beryl !  This  was  sure  to 
be  it.  He  began  to  read,  and  almost  immediately  was  absorbed. 
His  brows  contracted,  his  lips  went  up  towards  his  long,  hooked 
nose.  A  strong  light  shone  in  his  hard,  intelligent  eyes,  eyes 
surely  endowed  with  the  power  to  pierce  into  hidden  places. 
Presently  he  put  the  paper  down.  So  that  was  it!  That  was 
why  Beryl  had  been  so  startled  when  he  touched  her  in  the 
restaurant ! 

He  got  up  and  walked  to  the  easel  on  which  was  the  new 
sketch  for  Arabian's  portrait,  stood  before  it  and  looked  at  it 
for  a  very  long  time.  And  all  the  time  he  stood  there  what 
he  had  just  read  was  in  his  mind.  Fear !  The  fascination  of 
fear !  There  were  women  who  could  only  love  what  they  could 
also  fear.  Perhaps  Beryl  was  one  of  them.  Perhaps  under- 
neath all  her  audacity,  her  self-possession,  her  "damned  cheek," 
her  abnormal  vanity,  there  was  the  thing  that  could  shrink,  and 
quiver,  and  love  the  brute. 

Was  that  her  secret ?    And  his?    Arabian's? 

Garstin  threw  himself  down  presently  and  looked  at  the 
paper  again.  The  article  which  he  felt  sure  had  gripped  Miss 
Van  Tuyn's  attention  described  a  new  play  which  had  just 
made  a  sensation  in  Paris.  A  woman,  apparently  courageous 
almost  to  hardness,  self -engrossed,  beautiful  and  cold,  became 
in  this  play  fascinated  by  a  man  about  whom  she  knew  nothing, 
whom  she  did  not  understand,  who  was  not  in  her  circle  of 
society,  who  knew  none  of  her  friends,  who  came  from  she 
knew  not  where.  Her  instinct  hinted  to  her  that  there  was  in 
him  something  abominable.  She  distrusted  him.  She  was  even 
afraid  of  him.  But  he  made  an  enormous  impression  upon  her. 
And  she  said  of  him  to  a  man  who  warned  her  against  him, 
"But  he  means  a  great  deal  to  me  and  other  men  mean  little  or 
nothing.  There  is  something  in  him  which  speaks  to  me  and  in 
others  there  is  nothing  but  silence.  There  is  something  in  him 
which  leads  me  along  a  path  and  others  leave  me  standing  where 
I  am." 

Eventually,  against  the  warning  of  her  own  instinct,  and, 


816  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

as  it  were,  in  spite  of  herself,  she  gave  herself  up  to  the  man, 
and  after  a  very  short  association  with  him — only  a  few  days — 
he  strangled  her.  She  had  a  long  and  very  beautiful  neck. 
Hidden  in  him  was  a  homicidal  tendency.  Her  throat  had 
drawn  his  hands,  and,  behind  his  hands,  him.  And  she? 
Apparently  she  had  been  drawn  to  the  murderer  hidden  in  him, 
to  the  strong,  ruthless,  terribly  intent,  crouching  thing  that 
wanted  to  destroy  her. 

As  the  writer  of  the  article  pointed  out,  the  play  was  a 
Grand  Guignol  piece  produced  away  from  its  proper  environ- 
ment.    It  was  called  The  Lure  of  Destruction. 

How  Beryl  had  started  when  a  hand  had  touched  her  in  the 
restaurant !  And  how  angry  she  had  been  afterwards  !  Garstin 
smiled  as  he  remembered  her  anger.  But  she  had  looked  won- 
derful. She  might  be  worth  painting  presently.  He  did  not 
really  care  to  paint  a  Ceres.  But  she  was  rapidly  losing  the 
Ceres  look. 

Before  he  went  to  bed  he  again  stood  in  front  of  the  scarcely 
begun  sketch  for  the  portrait  of  Arabian,  and  looked  at  it  for  a 
long  time.  His  face  became  grim  and  set  as  he  looked.  Pres- 
ently he  moved  his  lips  as  if  he  were  saying  something  to  a 
listener  within.    And  the  listener  heard : 

"In  the  underworld — but  is  the  fellow  a  king  ?" 


CHAPTER  III 

FRANCIS  BRAYBROOKE  was  pleased.  Young  Craven 
and  Beryl  were  evidently  "drawing  together"  now  Adela 
Sellingworth  was  happily  out  of  the  way.  He  heard  of  them 
dining  together  at  the  Bella  Napoli,  playing  golf  together  at 
Beaconsfield — or  was  it  Chorley  Wood?  He  was  not  quite 
sure.  He  heard  of  young  Craven  being  seen  at  Claridge's  going 
up  in  the  lift  to  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  floor.  All  this  was  very 
encouraging.  Braybrooke's  former  fears  were  swept  away 
and  his  confidence  in  his  social  sense  was  re-established  upon 
its  throne.  Evidently  he  had  been  quite  mistaken,  and  there 
had  been  nothing  in  that  odd  friendship  with  Adela  Selling- 
worth.  This  would  teach  him  not  to  let  himself  go  to  suspicion 
in  the  future. 

He  still  did  not  know  where  Lady  Sellingworth  was.  Nothing 
had  appeared  in  the  Morning  Post  about  her  movements.  No- 
body seemed  to  know  anything  about  her.  He  met  various 
members  of  the  "old  guard"  and  made  inquiry,  but  "Haven't 
an  idea"  was  the  invariable  reply.  Even,  and  this  was  strangest 
of  all,  Seymour  Portman  did  not  know  where  she  was.  Bray- 
brooke  met  him  one  day  at  the  Marlborough  and  spoke  of  the 
matter,  and  Seymour  Portman,  with  his  most  self-contained  and 
reserved  manner,  replied  that  he  believed  Lady  Sellingworth 
had  gone  abroad  to  "take  a  rest,"  but  that  he  was  not  sure 
where  she  was  "at  the  moment."  She  was  probably  moving 
about. 

Why  should  she  take  a  rest?  She  never  did  anything  spe- 
cially laborious.  It  really  was  quite  mysterious.  One  day 
Braybrooke  inquired  discreetly  in  Berkeley  Square,  alleging  a 
desire  to  communicate  with  Lady  Sellingworth  about  a  charity 
bazaar  in  which  he  was  interested;  but  the  footman  did  not 
know  where  her  ladyship  was  or  when  she  was  coming  back  to 
town.     And  still  letters  were  not  being  forwarded. 

Meanwhile  Fanny  Cronin  felt  that  Paris  was  drifting  quite 

317 


318  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

out  of  her  ken.  The  autumn  was  deepening.  The  first  fogs  of 
winter  had  made  a  premature  appearance,  and  the  spell  of  the 
Wallace  Collection  was  evidently  as  strong  as  ever  on  Beryl. 
But  was  it  the  Wallace  Collection?  Miss  Cronin  never  knew 
much  about  what  Beryl  was  doing.  Still,  she  was  a  woman  and 
had  her  instincts,  rudimentary  though  they  were.  Mr.  Bray- 
brooke  must  certainly  have  received  his  conge.  Mrs.  Clem 
Hodson  quite  agreed  with  Miss  Cronin  on  that  point.  Beryl 
had  probably  refused  the  poor  foolish  old  man  that  day  at  the 
Ritz  when  there  had  been  that  unpleasant  dispute  about  the 
plum  cake.  But  now  there  was  this  Mr.  Craven !  Miss  Cronin 
had  found  him  once  with  Beryl  in  the  latter's  sitting-room; 
she  had  reason  to  believe  they  had  played  golf  together.  The 
young  man  was  certainly  handsome.  And  then  Beryl  had 
seemed  quite  altered  just  lately.  Her  temper  was  decidedly 
uncertain.  She  was  unusually  restless  and  preoccupied.  Twice 
she  had  been  exceedingly  cross  about  Bourget.  And  she  looked 
different  too ;  even  Suzanne  Hodson  had  noticed  it.  There  was 
something  in  her  face — "a  sort  of  look,"  Miss  Cronin  called  it, 
with  an  apt  feeling  for  the  choice  of  words — which  Was  new 
and  alarming.  Mrs.  Clem  declared  that  Beryl  had  the  expres- 
sion of  a  woman  who  was  crazy  about  a  man. 

"It's  the  eyes  and  the  cheek-bones  that  tell  the  tale,  Fanny !" 
she  had  observed.  "They  can't  deceive  a  woman.  Don't  talk 
to  me  about  the  Wallace  Collection." 

Poor  Miss  Cronin  was  very  uneasy.  The  future  looked  al- 
most as  dark  as  the  London  days.  As  she  lay  upon  the  French 
bed,  or  reclined  upon  the  sofa,  or  sat  deep  in  her  arm-chair, 
she  envisaged  an  awful  change,  when  the  Avenue  Henri  Martin 
would  know  her  no  more,  when  she  might  have  to  return  to  the 
lair  in  Philadelphia  from  which  Mrs.  Van  Tuyn  had  summoned 
her  to  take  charge  of  Beryl. 

One  day,  when  she  was  almost  brooding  over  the  fire,  between 
five  and  six  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  the  door  opened  and 
Beryl  appeared.  She  had  been  out  since  eleven  in  the  morning. 
But  that  was  nothing  new.  She  went  out  very  often  about 
half -past  ten  and  scarcely  ever  came  back  to  lunch. 

"Fanny !"  she  said.    "I  want  you." 

"What  is  it,  dear  ?"  said  Miss  Cronin,  sitting  forward  a  little 
in  her  chair  and  laying  aside  her  book. 


CHAPTER  III  DECEMBER  LOVE  319 

"I've  brought  back  a  friend,  and  I  want  you  to  know  him. 
Come  into  my  sitting-room." 

Miss  Cronin  got  up  obediently  and,  remembering  Mrs.  Clem's 
words,  looked  at  Beryl's  cheek-bones  and  eyes. 

"Is  it  Mr.  Craven  ?"  she  asked  in  a  quavering  voice. 

"Mr.  Craven — no  !    You  know  him  already." 

"I  have  seen  him  once,  dear." 

"Come  along !" 

Miss  Cronin  followed  her  into  the  lobby.  The  door  of  the 
sitting-room  was  open,  and  by  the  fire  was  standing  a  stalwart- 
looking  man  in  a  dark  blue  overcoat.  As  Miss  Cronin  came  in 
he  gazed  at  her,  and  she  thought  she  had  never  before  seen  such 
a  pair  of  melting  brown  eyes.  Beryl  introduced  him  as  Mr. 
Arabian. 

The  stranger  bowed,  and  then  pressed  Miss  Cronin's  freckled 
right  hand  gently,  but  strongly  too. 

"I  have  been  hoping  to  meet  you,"  he  said,  in  a  strong  but 
gentle  voice  which  had,  Miss  Cromin  thought,  almost  caressing 
inflexions. 

"Very  glad  to  meet  you,  indeed !"  said  the  companion. 

"Yes.    Miss  Van  Tuyn  has  told  me  what  you  are  to  her." 

"Forgive  me  for  a  minute !"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn.  "I  must 
take  off  my  things.  They  all  feel  as  if  they  were  full  of  fog. 
Fanny,  entertain  Mr.  Arabian  until  I  come  back.  But  don't 
talk  about  Bourget.    He's  never  read  Bourget,  I'm  sure." 

She  looked  at  Fanny  Cronin  and  went  out  of  the  room.  And 
in  that  look  old  Fanny,  slow  in  the  uptake  though  she  undoubt- 
edly was,  read  a  tremendous  piece  of  news. 

This  must  be  the  Wallace  Collection ! 

That  was  how  her  mind  put  it.  This  must  be  the  great 
reason  of  Beryl's  lingering  in  London,  this  total  stranger  of 
whom  she  had  never  heard  till  this  moment.  Her  instinct  had 
not  deceived  her.  Beryl  had  at  last  fallen  in  love.  And  prob- 
ably Mr.  Braybrooke  had  been  aware  of  it  when  he  had  called 
that  afternoon  and  talked  so  persistently  about  the  changes  and 
chances  of  life.  In  that  case  Miss  Cronin  had  wronged  liim. 
And  he  had  perhaps  come  to  plead  the  cause  of  another. 

"The  weather — it  is  really  terrible,  is  it  not?  You  are  wise 
to  stay  in  the  warm." 

So  the  conversation  began  between  Miss  Cronin  and  Arabian, 


320  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

and  it  continued  for  quite  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Then  Miss 
Van  Tuyn  came  back  in  a  tea  gown,  looking  lovely  with  her 
uncovered  hair  and  her  shining,  excited  eyes,  and  some  twenty 
minutes  later  Arabian  went  away. 

When  he  had  gone  Miss  Van  Tuyn  said  carelessly: 

"Fanny,  darling,  what  do  you  think  of  him?" 

Fanny,  darling!  That  was  not  Beryl's  usual  way  of  putting 
things.  Miss  Cronin  was  much  shaken.  She  felt  the  ground 
of  her  life,  as  it  were,  rocking  beneath  her  feet,  and  yet  she 
answered — she  could  not  help  it : 

'T  think  Mr.  Arabian  is  the  most — the  most — he  is  fasci- 
nating.   He  is  a  charming  man.    And  how  very  good-looking !" 

"Yes,  he's  a  handsome  fellow.    And  so  you  liked  him  ?" 

"No  one  has  ever  been  so  charming  to  me  as  he  was — that  I 
can  remember.  He  must  have  a  most  sympathetic  make-up. 
Who  is  he?" 

"A  friend  of  Dick  Garstin,  the  painter.  And  so  he  attracted 
you?" 

"I  think  him  certainly  most  attractive.  I  should  imagine  he 
must  have  a  very  kind  heart.  There  is  something  almost  child- 
like about  him,  so  simple !" 

"So — so  you  find  nothing  repellent  in  him?" 

"Repellent!"  said  Miss  Cronin,  almost  with  heat.  "Do  you 
mean  to  say — then  don't  you  like  him?" 

"I  like  him  well  enough.  But,  as  you  ought  to  know,  I'm  not 
given  to  raving  about  men." 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Cronin  almost  severely,  "Mr.  Arabian 

Is  that  his  true  name?" 

"Yes.     I  told  you  so." 

"It's  such  an  odd  name!  Mr.  Arabian  is  a  most  kind  and 
warm-hearted  man.  I  am  certain  of  that.  And  he  is  not  above 
being  charming  and  thoughtful  to  an  ordinary  old  woman  like 
me.  He  understands  me,  and  that  shows  he  has  sympathy.  I 
am  sure  Suzanne  would  like  him  too." 

"Really,  you  quite  rave  about  him!"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn, 
with  a  light  touch  of  sarcasm. 

But  her  eyes  looked  pleased,  and  that  evening  she  was  excep- 
tionally kind  to  old  Fanny. 

She  had  not  yet  brought  Arabian  and  Alick  Craven  together. 
Somehow  she  shrank  from  that  far  more  than  she  had  shrunk 


CHAPTER  111  DECEMBER  LOVE  821 

from  the  test  with  Fanny.  Craven  was  very  English,  and 
EngHshmen  are  apt  to  be  intolerant  about  men  of  other  nations. 
And  Craven  was  a  man,  and  apparently  was  beginning  to  like 
her  very  much.  He  would  not  be  a  fair  judge.  Undoubtedly 
he  would  be  prejudiced. 

And  at  this  point  in  her  mental  communings  Miss  Van  Tuyn 
realized  that  she  was  losing  her  independence  of  mind.  What 
did  it  matter  if  Fanny  thought  this  and  Alick  Craven  that? 
What  did  it  matter  what  anyone  thought  but  herself? 

But  she  was  surely  confused,  was  walking  in  the  clouds. 
Dick  Garstin  had  given  her  a  lead  that  night  of  the  meeting  of 
the  Georgians.  She  had  certainly  been  affected  by  his  words. 
Perhaps  he  had  even  infected  her  with  his  thought.  Thought 
can  infect,  and  Garstin  had  a  powerful  mind.  And  now  she 
was  seeking  to  oppose  to  Garstin's  thought  the  opinion  of 
others.  How  terribly  weak  that  was!  And  she  had  always 
prided  herself  on  her  strength.  She  was  startled,  even  angered, 
by  the  change  in  herself. 

Her  connexion  with  Craven  was  peculiar. 

Ever  since  Lady  Sellingworth's  abrupt  departure  from  Eng- 
land he  had  persistently  sought  her  out,  had  shown  a  sort  of 
almost  obstinate  desire  to  be  in  her  company.  Remembering 
what  had  happened  when  Lady  Sellingworth  was  still  in  Berk- 
eley Square,  Miss  Van  Tuyn  had  been  on  her  guard.  Craven 
had  hurt  her  vanity  once.  She  did  not  quite  understand  him. 
She  suspected  him  of  peculiarity.  She  even  wondered  whether 
he  had  had  a  quarrel  with  Adela  which  had  been  concealed 
from  her,  and  which  might  account  for  Adela's  departure  and 
for  Craven's  present  assiduity.  Possibly,  but  for  one  reason, 
her  injured  vanity  would  have  kept  Craven  at  a  distance — at 
any  rate,  for  a  time.  It  would  have  been  pleasant  to  deal  out 
suitable  punishment  to  one  who  certainly  deserved  it.  But 
there  was  the  reason  for  the  taking  of  the  other  course — 
Arabian. 

An  obscure  instinct  drove  her  into  intimacy  with  Craven 
because  of  Arabian.  She  was  not  sure  that  she  wanted  Craven 
just  now,  but  she  might  want  him,  perhaps  very  much,  later. 
She  knew  he  was  not  really  in  love  with  her,  but  they  were 
beginning  to  get  on  well  together.  He  admired  her;  she  held 
out  a  hand  to  his  youth.    There  was  something  of  comradeship 


322  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

in  their  association.  And  their  minds  understood  each  other 
rather  well,  she  thought.  For  they  were  both  genuinely  inter- 
ested in  the  arts,  though  neither  of  them  was  an  artist.  And 
she  felt  very  safe  with  Alick  Craven,  So  she  forgave  Craven 
for  his  behaviour  with  Adela  Sellingworth.  She  let  him  off  his 
punishment.  She  relied  upon  him  as  her  friend.  And  she 
needed  to  rely  upon  someone.  For  the  calm  self-possession  of 
her  nature  was  beginning  to  be  seriously  affected.  She  was 
losing  some  of  her  hitherto  immense  self-assurance.  Her  faith 
in  the  coolness  and  dominating  strength  of  her  own  tempera- 
ment was  shaken. 

Arabian  troubled  her  increasingly. 

That  night  at  the  restaurant  in  Conduit  Street  she  had  felt 
that  she  hated  him,  and  when  she  had  left  Garstin  she  had 
realized  something,  that  the  measure  of  her  nervous  hatred  was 
the  measure  of  something  else.  Why  should  she  mind  what 
Arabian  did?  What  was  his  way  of  Hfe  to  her?  Other  men 
could  do  what  they  chose  and  her  well-poised,  well-disciplined 
brain  retained  its  normal  calm.  So  long  as  they  gave  her  the 
admiration  which  her  vanity  needed,  she  was  not  persecuted  by 
any  undue  anxieties  about  the  secret  conduct  of  their  lives. 
But  she  was  tormented  by  the  memory  of  that  girl  in  the 
restaurant.  And  she  remembered  the  conversation  about  jeal- 
ousy round  the  dinner  table  at  the  Carlton.  She  was  jealous 
now.  That  was  why  she  had  been  so  angry  with  Garstin. 
That  was  why  she  had  lain  awake  that  night. 

And  yet  the  next  morning  she  had  gone  to  the  studio  in  Glebe 
Place.  She  had  greeted  Arabian  as  usual.  She  had  never  let 
him  know  that  she  had  seen  him  in  the  restaurant,  and  she  had 
persuaded  Dick  Garstin  to  say  nothing  about  it.  No  doubt 
Arabian  supposed  that  he  had  been  too  quick  for  them,  and  that 
they  did  not  know  he  was  with  the  woman  who  had  come  in  and 
had  almost  immediately  gone  out. 

But  since  that  night  Miss  Van  Tuyn  had  been  persecuted  by 
a  secret  jealousy  such  as  she  had  never  known  till  now. 

Let  him  sink  back  to  the  depths !  She  had  said  that,  but  she 
did  not  want  him  to  disappear  out  of  her  life.  She  had  said, 
too,  that  he  was  horrible.  The  words  were  spoken  in  a  moment 
of  intense  nervous  irritation.  But  were  not  they  true?  She 
thought  of  him  as  a  night  bird.     Yet  she  brought  him  to 


CHAPTER  III  DECEMBER  LOVE  323 

Claridge's  and  introduced  him  to  Fanny,  and  sought  Fanny's 
opinion  of  him,  and  been  pleased  that  it  was  favourable.  And 
she  saw  him  almost  daily.  And  she  knew  she  would  go  on 
seeing  him  till — what  ? 

She  could  not  foresee  the  end  of  this  adventure  brought  about 
by  her  own  audacious  wilfulness.  Some  day  she  supposed 
Dick  Garstin  would  be  satisfied  with  his  work.  A  successful 
portrait  of  Arabian  would  stand  on  the  easel  in  Glebe  Place. 
Garstin  was  not  at  all  satisfied  yet.  She  knew  that.  He  had 
put  aside  two  more  beginnings  angrily,  had  started  again,  had 
paused,  taken  up  other  work,  taken  a  rest,  sent  for  Arabian 
once  more.  But  this  strange  impotence  of  Garstin  to  satisfy 
himself  would  surely  not  last  for  ever.  Either  he  would 
succeed,  or  he  would  abandon  the  attempt  to  succeed,  or — a 
third  possibility  presented  itself  to  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  mind — his 
model  would  get  tired  of  the  conflict  and  refuse  to  "sit"  any 
more. 

And  then — the  depths? 

Till  now  Arabian's  patience  had  been  remarkable.  Evidently 
Garstin's  obstinacy  was  matched  by  an  obstinacy  in  him.  Al- 
though he  had  once  perhaps  been  secretly  reluctant  to  sit,  had 
been  tempted  to  become  Garstin's  model  by  the  promise  of  the 
finished  picture,  he  now  seemed  determined  to  do  his  part, 
endured  Garstin's  irritability,  dissatisfaction,  abandoned  and 
renewed  attempts  to  "make  a  first-rate  job  of  him"  with  remark- 
able good  temper.  He  was  evidently  resolved  not  to  give  up 
this  enterprise  without  his  reward.  There  was  fixed  purpose  in 
his  patience. 

"By  God  he's  a  stayer !"  Garstin  had  said  of  him  on  a  puffing 
breath  one  day  when  the  palette  knife  had  been  angrily  used 
once  more.  "Either  he's  waiting  for  the  money  value  of  a 
portrait  by  me  like  a  cat  for  a  mouse,  or  he's  afraid  of  the 
finish." 

"Why?"  Miss  Van  Tuyn  had  asked. 

"Well,  you're  in  the  thing!  Perhaps  he's  afraid  that  when 
he  says  good-bye  to  my  studio  he  says  good-bye  to  you  too. 
Or  perhaps  the  two  reasons  govern  him — love  of  money,  love 
of  woman.    Anyhow  he's  a  sticker !" 

"He  only  wants  the  picture,"  she  had  said. 

But  that  remark  had  been  made  for  the  benefit  of  Garstin. 


324  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

By  this  time  she  knew  that  Arabian  had  a  further  purpose,  and 
that  it  was  connected  with  herself.  She  was  sure  that  he  was 
intent  on  her.  And  she  wondered  very  much  what  he  would 
do  when  at  last  the  picture  was  finished.  Surely  then  some- 
thing definite  must  happen.  She  both  longed  for  and  dreaded 
that  moment.  She  knew  Garstin,  and  she  knew  that  once  he 
had  achieved  what  he  was  trying — "sweating  blood,"  he  called 
it — to  achieve  his  interest  in  Arabian  would  almost  certainly 
cease.  Arabian  would  then  be  nothing  but  used  material  of 
no  more  value  in  Garstin's  life.  The  picture  would  be  exhibited, 
and  then  handed  over  to  Arabian,  and  Garstin  would  be  off  on 
some  other  track. 

She  had  now  been  with  Arabian  probably  as  many  times  as 
she  had  been  with  Craven.  Yet  she  thoroughly  understood  the 
essential  qualities  of  the  Englishman,  or  believed  that  she  did, 
and  she  still  knew  very  little  about  Arabian.  She  did  not  even 
know  what  race  he  belonged  to.  He  had  evidently  travelled  a 
great  deal.  Sometimes  he  casually  mentioned  having  been  here 
or  there.  He  spoke  of  America  as  one  who  had  often  been  in 
New  York.  Once  he  had  mentioned  San  Francisco  as  if  he 
were  very  familiar  with  it.  Miss  Van  Tuyn  had  relatives  there, 
and  had  asked  him  if  he  knew  them.  But  he  had  not  known 
them.  Whom  did  he  know?  She  often  wondered.  He  must 
know  somebody  besides  that  horrible  girl  she  had  seen  for  a 
moment  in  the  restaurant  in  Conduit  Street.  But  she  did  not 
like  to  ask  him  direct  questions.  To  do  that  would  be  to  show 
too  much  interest  in  him.  And  something  else,  too,  prevented" 
her  from  questioning  him.  She  had  no  faith  in  his  word.  She 
felt  that  he  was  a  man  who  would  say  anything  which  suited 
his  purpose.  She  had  never  caught  him  out  in  a  direct  lie,  but 
she  was  quite  certain  he  would  not  mind  telling  one.  Of  course 
she  had  often  known  men  about  whom  she  knew  really  very 
little.  But  she  could  not  remember  ever  having  known  a  man 
about  whose  character,  position,  education  and  former  life  she 
was  so  ignorant  as  she  was  about  Arabian's. 

He  was  still  a  vague  sort  of  Cosmopolitan  to  her,  a  floating 
foreign  man  whom  she  could  not  place.  He  was  still  the  mag- 
nificent mongrel  belonging  to  no  known  breed. 

Certain  things  about  him  she  did  know,  however.  She  knew 
he  was  at  present  living  at  the  Charing  Cross  Hotel,  though  he 


CHAPTER  III  DECEMBER  LOVE  325 

said  he  was  looking  for  a  flat  in  the  West  End.  He  spoke 
several  languages ;  certainly  English,  French,  German  and 
Spanish.  He  had  some  knowledge  of  horseflesh,  and  evidently 
took  an  interest  in  racing.  He  seemed  interested,  too,  in  finance. 
And  he  played  the  piano  and  sang. 

That  gift  of  his  had  surprised  her.  One  day  in  the  studio, 
when  Garstin  had  finished  painting,  and  they  had  lingered 
smoking  and  talking,  the  conversation  had  turned  on  music,  and 
Garstin,  who  had  some  knowledge  of  all  the  arts,  had  spoken 
about  Stravinsky,  whom  he  knew,  and  whose  music  he  pro- 
fessed to  understand.  Miss  Van  Tuyn  had  joined  in,  and  had 
given  her  view  on  Le  Sacre  du  Printemps,  The  Nightingale, 
and  other  works.  Arabian  had  sat  smoking  in  discreet  silence, 
till  she  had  said  to  him  bluntly : 

"Do  you  care  about  music  ?" 

And  then  Arabian  had  said  that  he  was  very  fond  of  music, 
and  played  and  sang  a  little  himself,  but  that  he  had  been  too 
lazy  to  study  seriously  and  had  an  uneducated  ear. 

Garstin  had  told  him  bluntly  to  go  to  the  piano  and  show 
them  what  he  could  do.  And  Arabian  had  surprised  Miss  Van 
Tuyn  by  at  once  complying  with  this  request,  which  had 
sounded  like  an  order. 

His  performance  had  been  the  sort  of  thing  she,  having 
"advanced"  views  on  musical  matters,  was  generally  inclined  to 
sneer  at  or  avoid.  He  had  played  two  or  three  coon  songs  and 
a  tango.  But  there  had  been  in  his  playing  a  sheer  "musical- 
ness,"  as  she  had  called  it  afterwards,  which  had  enticed  her 
almost  against  her  will.  And  when  he  had  sung  some  little 
Spanish  songs  she  had  been  conquered,  though  she  had  not 
said  so. 

His  voice  was  a  warm  and  soft  tenor,  and  he  had  sung  very 
naturally,  carelessly  almost.  But  everything  had  been  just 
right.  When  he  had  stolen  time,  when  he  had  given  it  back, 
the  stealing  and  repayment  had  been  right.  His  expression 
had  been  charming  and  not  overdone.  There  had  been  at 
moments  a  delightful  impudence  in  his  singing.  The  touches 
of  tenderness  had  been  light  as  a  feather,  but  they  had  had  real 
meaning.  Through  his  last  song  he  had  kept  a  cigarette  alight 
in  his  mouth.  He  had  merely  hummed  the  melody,  but  it  had 
been  quite  delicious.     Even  Garstin  had  approved,  and  had 


326  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

said:  "The  stuff  was  sheer  rot,  but  it  was  like  a  palm  tree 
singing." 

And  then  Arabian  had  given  them  a  piece  of  information. 

"I  was  brought  up  among  palm  trees." 

"Florida?"  Garstin  had  said. 

But  somehow  the  question  had  not  been  answered.  Perhaps 
she — Beryl — had  spoken  just  then.  She  had  felt  excited.  She 
might  have  interrupted.  She  was  not  sure.  But  she  had  been 
"got  at"  by  the  music.  And  at  that  moment  she  had  realized 
why  Arabian  was  dangerous  to  her.  Not  only  his  looks  ap- 
pealed to  her.  He  had  other,  more  secret  weapons.  Charm, 
suppleness  of  temperament,  heat  and  desire  were  his.  Other- 
wise he  could  not  have  sung  and  played  that  rubbish  as  he  had 
done. 

That  day,  later  on,  he  had  not  actually  said,  but  had  implied 
that  some  Spanish  blood  ran  in  his  veins. 

"But  I  belong  to  no  country,"  he  had  added  quickly.  "I  am  a 
gamin  of  the  world." 

"Not  a  citizen?"  she  had  said. 

"No;  I  am  the  eternal  gamin.  I  shall  never  be  anything 
else." 

All  very  well !  But  at  moments  she  was  convinced  that  there 
was  a  very  hard  and  a  very  wary  man  in  Arabian. 

Perhaps  sitting  under  the  singing  palm  tree  there  was  a 
savage ! 

She  wanted  to  know  what  Arabian  was.  She  began  to  feel 
that  she  must  know.  For,  in  spite  of  her  ignorance,  their 
intimacy  was  deepening.  And  now  people  were  beginning  to 
talk.  Although  she  had  been  so  careful  not  to  show  herself 
with  Arabian  in  any  smart  restaurants,  not  to  walk  with  him 
in  the  more  frequented  parts  of  the  West  End,  they  had  been 
seen  together.  On  the  day  when  she  had  brought  him  to 
Claridge's  some  American  friends  had  seen  them  pass  through 
the  hall,  and  afterwards  had  asked  her  who  he  was.  Another 
day,  when  she  was  coming  away  with  him  from  the  studio, 
she  had  met  Lady  Archie  Brooke  at  the  corner  of  Glebe  Place. 
She  had  not  stopped  to  speak.  But  Lady  Archie  had  stared  at 
Arabian.  And  Miss  Van  Tuyn  knew  what  that  meant.  The 
"old  guard"  would  be  told  of  Beryl's  wonderful  new  man. 

She  felt  nervously  sensitive  about  Arabian.     And  yet  she 


CHAPTER  III  DECEMBER  LOVE  32T 

had  been  about  Paris  with  all  sorts  of  men,  and  had  not  cared 
what  people  had  thought  or  said.  But  those  men  had  been 
clever,  workers  in  the  arts,  men  with  names  that  were  known, 
or  that  would  be  known  presently.  Arabian  was  different. 
She  felt  oddly  shy  about  being  seen  with  him.  Her  audacity 
seemed  fading  away  in  her.  She  realized  that  and  felt  alarmed. 
If  only  she  knew  something  definite  about  Arabian,  who  he  was, 
what  his  people  were,  where  he  came  from,  she  would  feel 
much  easier.  She  began  to  worry  about  the  matter.  She  lay 
awake  at  night.  At  moments  a  sort  of  desperation  came  upon 
her  like  a  wave.  Sometimes  she  said  to  herself,  "I  wish  I  had 
never  met  him."  And  yet  she  knew  that  she  did  not  want  to 
get  rid  of  him.  But  she  wished  no  one  to  know  of  her  friend- 
ship with  this  man — if  it  were  a  friendship. 

Garstin  was  watching  her  through  it  all.  She  hated  his  eyes. 
He  did  not  care  what  was  happening  to  her.  He  only  cared 
what  appearance  it  caused ;  how  it  affected  her  eyes,  her  man- 
ner, her  expression,  the  line  of  her  mouth,  the  movements  of 
her  hands.  He  had  said  that  she  was  waking  up.  But — to 
what? 

All  this  time  she  seemed  to  be  aware  of  an  almost  fatal  grow- 
ing intention  in  Arabian.  Nevertheless,  he  waited.  She  had 
never  been  able  to  forget  the  article  she  had  read  in  the  West- 
minster Gazette.  When  she  had  read  about  the  woman  in  the 
play  she  had  instinctively  compared  herself  with  that  woman. 
And  then  something  in  her  had  revolted.  She  had  thought  of  it 
as  her  Americanism,  which  loathed  the  idea  of  slavery  in  any 
form.  But  nevertheless,  she  had  been  aware  of  alarming 
possibilities  within  her.  She  was  able  to  understand  the  woman 
in  the  play.  And  that  must  surely  be  because  she  was  obscurely 
akin  to  her.  And  she  knew  that  when  she  had  read  the  article 
the  man  in  the  play  had  made  her  think  of  Arabian.  That,  of 
course,  was  absurd.  But  she  understood  why  it  was.  That 
woman  had  been  attracted  by  a  man  of  whom  she  knew  noth- 
ing. She,  Beryl  Van  Tuyn,  was  in  the  same  situation.  But  of 
course  she  did  not  compare  poor  Arabian  in  her  mind  with  a 
homicidal  maniac. 

He  was  gentle  and  charming.  Old  Fanny  liked  him  im- 
mensely, said  he  had  a  kind  heart.    And  Fanny  was  sensitive. 


328  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

Yet  again  she  thought  of  the  savage  sitting  under  the  palm 
tree  and  of  Dick  Garstin's  allusion  to  a  king  in  the  underworld. 

She  resented  being  worried.  She  resented  having  her  nerves 
on  edge.  She  was  angry  with  Dick  Garstin,  and  even  angry 
with  herself.  In  bed  at  night,  when  she  could  not  sleep,  she 
read  books  on  New  Thought,  and  tried  to  learn  how  to  govern 
her  mind  and  to  control  her  thought  processes.  But  she  was 
not  successful  in  the  attempt.  Her  mind  continually  went  to 
Arabian,  and  then  she  was  filled  with  anxiety,  with  suspicion, 
with  jealousy,  and  with  a  strange  sort  of  longing  mysteriously 
combined  with  repulsion  and  dread.  And  underneath  all  her 
feelings  and  thoughts  there  was  a  basic  excitement  which 
troubled  her  and  which  she  could  not  get  rid  of . 

One  morning  she  got  up  full  of  restlessness.  That  day  Dick 
Garstin  was  not  painting.  It  was  a  Sunday,  and  he  had  gone 
into  the  country  to  stay  with  some  friends.  Miss  Van  Tuyn 
had  made  no  arrangement  to  see  Arabian.  Indeed,  she  never 
saw  him  except  on  the  painting  days,  for  she  still  kept  up  the 
pretence  that  he  was  merely  an  acquaintance,  and  that  she  only 
met  him  because  of  her  interest  in  Garstin's  work  and  her  wish 
to  learn  more  of  the  technique  of  painting.  The  day  was  free 
before  her.  She  went  to  the  telephone  and  called  up  Alick 
Craven. 

It  was  a  fine  morning,  cold  and  crisp,  with  a  pale  sun.  She 
longed  to  be  out  of  town,  and  she  suggested  to  Craven  to  join 
her  in  hiring  a  Daimler  car,  to  run  down  to  Rye,  and  to  have 
a  round  of  golf  on  the  difficult  course  by  the  sea.  She  had  a 
friend  close  to  Rye  who  would  introduce  them  as  visiting 
players.  They  would  take  a  hamper  and  lunch  in  the  car  on 
the  way  down. 

Craven  agreed  with  apparent  eagerness.  By  ten  they  were 
off.  Soon  after  one  they  were  on  the  links.  They  played  the 
full  round,  eighteen  holes,  and  Craven  beat  her.  Then  they 
had  tea  in  the  house  below  the  club-house  on  the  left-hand  side 
of  the  road  as  you  go  towards  Camber  Sands. 

After  tea  Miss  Van  Tuyn  suggested  running  a  little  farther 
on  in  the  car  and  taking  a  walk  on  the  sands  before  starting  on 
the  journey  back  to  London. 

"I  love  hard  sands  and  the  wind  and  the  lines  upon  lines  of 


CHAPTER  III  DECEMBER  LOVE  329 

surf !"  she  said.  "The  wind  blows  away  some  of  my  civiliza- 
tion." 

"I  know !"  said  Craven,  looking  at  her  with  admiration. 

He  liked  her  strength  and  energy,  the  indefatigable  youth  of 
3ier. 

"En  route!" 

Soon  the  car  stopped.  They  got  out,  and  over  the  sandy  hill, 
with  its  rough  sea-grasses,  they  made  their  way  to  the  sands. 

The  tide  was  low.  There  was  room  and  to  spare  on  the  hard, 
level  expanse.  Lines  of  white  surf  stretched  to  right  and  left 
far  as  the  eyes  could  see.  The  piercing  cries  of  the  gulls 
floating  on  the"  eddying  wind  were  relieved  against  the  blooming 
diapason  of  the  sea.  And  the  solitude  was  as  the  solitude  of 
some  lost  island  of  the  main.  They  descended,  sinking  in  the 
loose,  fine  sand  of  the  banks,  and  the  soft,  pale  sand  that  edged 
them,  and  made  their  way  to  the  yellow  and  vast  sands  that 
extended  to  the  calling  monster,  whose  voice  filled  their  ears, 
and  seemed  to  be  summoning  them  persistently,  with  an  almost 
tragic  arrogance,  away  from  all  they  knew,  from  all  that  was 
trying  to  hold  and  keep  them,  to  the  unknown,  to  the  big  things 
that  lie  always  far  off  over  the  edge  of  the  horizon. 

"Let  us  turn  our  backs  on  Rye !"  said  the  girl. 

They  swung  round  with  the  wind  behind  them,  and  walked 
on  easily  side  by  side,  helped  by  the  firm  and  delicate  floor 
under  their  feet. 

She  was  wearing  a  wine-coloured  "jumper,"  a  short  skirt 
of  a  rough  heathery  material,  a  small  brown  hat  pinned  low  on 
her  head,  pressed  down  on  her  smooth  forehead.  Her  cheeks 
were  glowing.  The  wind  sent  the  red  to  them.  She  stepped 
along  with  a  free,  strongly  athletic  movement.  There  was  a 
hint  of  the  Amazon  in  her.  On  her  white  neck  some  wisps  of 
light  yellow  hair,  loosened  by  the  wind's  fingers,  quivered  as  if 
separately  alive  and  wilful  with  energy. 

Craven,  striding  along  in  knickerbockers  beside  her,  felt  the 
animal  charm  of  her  as  he  had  never  felt  it  in  London.  She 
bad  thrust  her  gloves  away  in  some  hidden  pocket.  Her  right 
hand  grasped  a  stick  firmly.  The  white  showed  at  the  knuckles. 
He  felt  through  her  silence  that  she  was  giving  herself  heart 
and  soul  to  the  spirit  of  place,  to  the  sweeping  touch  of  the 
wind,  to  the  eternal  sound  in  the  voice  of  the  sea. 


330  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

They  walked  on  for  a  long  time  into  the  far  away.  There 
was  a  dull  lemon  light  over  the  sea  pushing  through  the  grey, 
hinting  at  sunset.  A  flock  of  gulls  tripped  jauntily  on  some 
wet  sand  near  to  them,  in  which  radiance  from  the  sky  was 
mysteriously  retained.  A  film  of  moving  moisture  from  the  sea 
spread  from  the  nearest  surf  edge,  herald  of  the  turning  tide. 
Miss  Van  Tuyn  raised  her  arms,  shook  them,  cried  out  with  all 
her  force.  And  the  gulls  rose,  easily,  strongly,  and  flew  in- 
solently towards  their  element. 

"Let  us  turn !"  she  said. 

"All  right !" 

Those  were  the  first  words  they  had  spoken. 

"Let  us  go  and  sit  down  in  a  sand-bank  and  see  the  twilight 
come." 

"Yes." 

They  sat  down  presently  among  the  spear-like  blades  of  the 
spiky  grass,  facing  the  tides  and  the  evening  sky,  and  Craven, 
witli  some  difficulty,  lit  his  pipe  and  persuaded  it  to  draw, 
while  she  looked  at  his  long-fingered  brown  hands. 

"I  couldn't  sit  here  with  some  people  I  know,"  she  said. 
"Desolation  like  this  needs  the  right  companion.  Isn't  it  odd 
how  some  people  are  only  for  certain  places?" 

"And  I  suppose  the  one  person  is  for  all  places." 

"Do  you  feel  at  home  with  me  here?"  she  asked  him,  rather 
abruptly  and  with  a  searching  look  at  him. 

"Yes,  quite — since  our  game.  A  good  game  is  a  link,  isn't 
it?" 

"For  bodies." 

"Well,  that  means  a  good  deal.    We  live  in  the  body." 

"Some  people  marry  through  games,  or  hunting.  They're 
the  bodily  people.  Others  marry  through  the  arts.  Music  pulls 
them  together,  or  painting,  or  literature.    They  are  mental." 

"Bodies — minds !    And  what  about  hearts  ?"  asked  Craven. 

"The  tide's  coming  in.  Hearts?  They  work  in  mystery,  I 
believe.  I  expect  when  you  love  someone  who  hasn't  a  taste  in 
common  with  you  your  heart  must  be  hard  at  work.  Perhaps 
it  is  only  opposites  who  can  really  love,  those  who  don't  under- 
stand why.  If  you  understand  why  you  are  on  the  ground. 
You  have  no  need  of  wings.  Have  you  ever  been  afraid  of 
anyone  ?" 


CHAPTER  III  DECEMBER  LOVE  331 

Craven  looked  at  her  with  a  dawning  of  surprise. 

"Do  you  mean  of  a  German  soldier,  for  instance?"  he  said. 

"No,  no  !  Of  course  not !  Of  anyone  you  have  known  per- 
sonally; afraid  of  anyone  as  an  individual?  That's  what  I 
mean." 

"I  can't  remember  that  I  ever  have." 

"Do  you  think  it  possible  to  love  someone  who  inspires'you  at 
moments  with  unreasoning  dread?" 

"No ;  candidly  I  don't." 

"I  think  there  can  be  attraction  in  repulsion," 

"I  should  be  very  sorry  for  myself  if  I  yielded  to  such  an 
attraction." 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  think  it  would  probably  lead  to  disaster." 

"How  soberly  you  speak !"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  almost  with 
an  air  of  distaste. 

After  a  moment  of  silence  she  added : 

"I  don't  believe  an  Englishman  has  the  power  to  lose  his 
head." 

Craven  sat  a  little  nearer  to  her. 

"Would  you  like  to  .see  me  lose  mine  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  say  that.    But  I  should  like  you  to  be  able  to." 

"And  you?  You  are  an  American  girl.  Don't  you  pride 
yourself  on  your  coolness,  your  self-control,  your  power  to  deal 
with  any  situation?  If  Englishmen  are  sober  minded,  what 
about  American  women?    Do  tJuy  lose  their  heads  easily?" 

"No.    That's  why " 

She  stopped  abruptly. 

"What  is  it  you  want  to  say  to  me  ?    What  are  you  trying  to 


say 


"Nothing !"  she  answered. 

And  her  voice  sounded  almost  sulky. 

The  bar  of  lemon  light  over  the  sea  narrowed.  Clouds,  with 
gold-tinted  edges,  were  encroaching  upon  it.  The  tide  had 
turned,  and,  because  they  knew  it,  the  voice  of  the  sea  sounded 
louder  to  them.  Already  they  could  imagine  those  sands  by 
night,  could  imagine  their  bleak  desolation,  could  almost  feel 
the  cold  thrill  of  their  loneliness. 

Craven  stretched  out  his  hand  and  took  one  of  hers  and 
held  it. 


332  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five, 

"Why  do  you  do  that?"  she  said.  "You  don't  care  for  me 
really." 

He  pressed  her  hand.  He  wanted  to  kiss  her  at  that  moment. 
His  youth,  the  game  they  had  played  together,  this  isolation  and 
nearness,  the  oncoming  night — they  all  seemed  to  be  working 
together,  pushing  him  towards  her  mysteriously.  But  just  at 
that  moment  on  the  sands  close  to  them  two  dark  figures 
appeared,  a  fisherman  in  his  Sunday  best  walking  with  his 
girl.  They  did  not  see  Miss  Van  Tuyn  and  Craven  on  the  sand- 
bank. With  their  arms  spread  round  each  other's  waists,  and 
slightly  lurching  in  the  wind,  they  walked  slowly  on,  sinking  at 
each  step  a  little  in  the  sand.  Their  red  faces  looked  bovine  in 
the  twilight. 

Almost  mechanically  Craven's  fingers  loosened  on  Miss  Van 
Tuyn's  hand.  She,  too,  was  chilled  by  this  vision  of  Sunday 
love,  and  her  hand  came  away  from  his. 

"They  are  having  their  Sunday  out,"  she  said,  with  a  slight, 
cold  laugh.    "And  we  have  had  ours !" 

And  she  got  up  and  shook  the  sand  grains  from  her  rough 
skirt. 

"And  that's  happiness !"  she  added,  almost  with  a  sneer. 

Like  him  she  felt  angry  and  almost  tricked,  hostile  to  the 
working  of  sex,  vulgarized  by  the  sight  of  that  other  drawing 
together  of  two  human  beings.  Oh!  the  ineptitude  of  the 
echoes  we  are !  Now  she  was  irritated  with  Craven  because  he 
had  taken  her  hand.  And  yet  she  had  been  on  the  edge  of  a 
great  experiment.  She  knew  that  Craven  did  not  love  her — yet. 
Perhaps  he  would  never  really  love  her.  Certainly  she  did  not 
love  him.  And  yet  that  day  she  had  come  out  from  London 
with  a  desire  to  take  refuge  in  him.  It  almost  arriounted  to 
that.  When  they  started  she  had  not  known  exactly  what  she 
was  going  to  do.  But  she  had  set  Craven,  the  safe  man,  the 
man  whom  she  could  place,  could  understand,  could  certainly 
trust  up  to  a  point,  in  her  mind  against  Arabian,  the  unsafe 
man,  whom  she  could  not  place,  could  not  understand,  could  not 
trust.  And,  mentally,  she  had  clung  to  Craven.  And  if  those 
two  bovine  sentimentalists  had  not  intruded  flat-footed  upon 
the  great  waste  of  Camber  and  the  romance  of  the  coming 
night,  and  Craven  had  yielded  to  his  impulse  and  had  kissed 
her,  she  might  have  clung  to  him  in  very  truth.     And  then? 


CHAPTER  in  DECEMBER  LOVE  333 

She  might  have  been  protected  against  Arabian,  But  evidently 
it  was  not  to  be.  At  the  critical  moment  Fate  had  intervened, 
had  sent  two  human  puppets  to  change  the  atmosphere. 

She  had  really  a  sense  of  Fate  upon  her  as  she  shook  the 
sand  from  her  skirt.  And  the  voice  of  the  slowly  approaching 
sea  sounded  in  her  ears  like  the  voice  of  the  inevitable. 

What  must  be  must  be. 

The  lemon  in  the  sky  was  fast  fading.  The  gold  was  dying 
away  from  the  edges  of  the  clouds.  The  long  lines  of  surf 
mingled  together  in  a  blur  of  tangled  whiteness.  She  looked 
for  a  moment  into  the  gathering  dimness,  and  she  felt  a  menace 
in  it;  she  heard  a  menace  in  the  cry  of  the  tides.  And  within 
herself  she  seemed  to  be  aware  of  a  menace. 

"It's  all  there  in  us,  every  bit  of  it!"  she  said  to  herself. 
"That's  the  horrible  thing.  It  doesn't  come  upon  us.  It's  in 
us." 

And  she  said  to  Craven : 

"Come !" 

It  was  rapidly  getting  dark.  The  ground  was  uneven  and 
rough,  the  sand  loose  and  crumbling. 

"Do  take  my  arm !"  he  said,  but  rather  coldly,  v/ith  constraint. 

She  hesitated,  then  took  it.  And  the  feeling  of  his  arm, 
which  was  strong  and  muscular,  brought  back  to  her  that 
strange  desire  to  use  him  as  a  refuge. 

Somewhat  as  Lady  Sellingworth  had  thought  of  Seymour 
Portman,  Beryl  Van  Tuyn  thought  of  Craven,  who  would 
certainly  not  have  enjoyed  knowledge  of  it. 

When  they  had  scrambled  down  to  the  road,  and  saw  the 
bright  eyes  of  the  car  staring  at  them  from  the  edge  of  the 
marshes,  she  dropped  his  arm. 

"How  Adela  Sellingworth  would  have  enjoyed  all  this  if  she 
had  been  here  to-day  instead  of  me !"  she  said. 

"Lady  Sellingworth!"  said  Craven,  as  if  startled.  "What 
made  you  think  of  her  just  then?" 

"I  don't  know.     Stop  a  moment !" 

She  stood  very  still. 

"I  believe  she  has  come  back  to  London,"  she  said.  "Perhaps 
she  sent  the  thought  to  me  from  Berkeley  Square.  How  long 
has  she  been  away  ?" 

"About  five  weeks,  I  should  think." 


334  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

"Would  you  be  glad  if  she  were  back?" 

"It  would  make  very  little  difference  to  me,"  he  said  in  a 
casual  voice.    "Now  put  on  your  coat." 

He  helped  her  into  the  car,  and  they  drove  away  from  the 
sands  and  the  links,  from  the  sea  and  their  mood  by  the  sea. 

They  drove  through  the  darkness  towards  London,  Lady 
Sellingworth  and  Arabian. 


CHAPTER  IV 

ON  the  following  day  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  remembering  her 
feeling  at  Camber  in  the  twilight,  went  to  the  telephone 
and  called  up  Number  i8a,  Berkeley  Square.  The  solemn 
voice  of  a  butler — she  knew  at  once  a  butler  was  speaking — 
replied  inquiring  her  business.  She  gave  her  name  and  asked 
whether  Lady  Sellingworth  had  returned  to  London.  The 
answer  was  that  her  ladyship  had  arrived  in  London  from  the 
Continent  on  Saturday  evening. 

"Please  tell  her  ladyship  that  her  friend,  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  will 
call  on  her  this  afternoon  about  five  o'clock,"  said  Miss  Van 
Tuyn. 

Soon  afterwards  she  put  on  her  hat  and  fur  coat  and  set  off 
on  her  way  to  Chelsea. 

A  little  before  five  she  turned  into  Berkeley  Square  on  foot, 
coming  from  Carlos  Place. 

She  felt  both  curious  and  slightly  hostile.  She  wondered 
very  much  why  Adela  had  gone  away  so  mysteriously;  she 
wondered  where  Adela  had  been  and  whether  she  had  returned 
changed.  When  Miss  Van  Tuyn  had  alluded  to  the  sheaves 
the  thought  in  her  mind  had  been  markedly  feminine.  It  had 
occurred  to  her  that  Adela  might  have  stolen  away  to  have 
"things"  done  to  her ;  that  she  might  come  back  to  London  mys- 
teriously rejuvenated.  Such  a  thing  was  possible  even  at  sixty. 
Miss  Van  Tuyn  had  known  of  waning  beauties  who  had 
vanished,  and  who  had  returned  to  the  world  looking  alarm- 
ingly young.  Certainly  she  had  never  known  of  a  woman  as 
old  in  appearance  as  Adela  becoming  transformed.  Neverthe- 
less in  modern  days,  when  the  culture  of  beauty  counts  in  its 
service  such  marvellous  experts,  almost  all  things  are  possible. 
If  Adela  had  gone  quite  mad  about  Alick  Craven  the  golden  age 
might  be  found  suddenly  domiciled  in  Number  i8a.  Then 
Adela's  intention  would  be  plain.  She  would  have  returned 
from  abroad  armed  cap-a-pie  for  conquest. 

335 


336  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five- 

The  knowledge  that  Adela  was  in  London  had  revived  in 
Miss  Van  Tuyn  the  creeping  hostility  which  she  had  felt  before 
her  friend's  departure.  She  remembered  her  lonely  walk  to 
Soho,  what  she  had  seen  through  the  lit-up  window  of  the 
Bella  Napoli.  The  sensation  of  ill  treatment  returned  to  her. 
She  would  have  scorned  to  acknowledge  even  to  herself  that 
she  was  afraid  of  Adela,  that  she  dreaded  Adela's  influence  on 
a  man.  But  when  she  thought  of  Craven  she  was  conscious  of 
a  strange  fluttering  of  anxiety.  She  wanted  to  keep  Craven  as 
a  friend.  She  wanted  him  to  be  her  special  friend.  This  he 
had  been,  but  only  since  Lady  Sellingworth  had  been  out  of 
London,  Now  she  had  come  back.  Over  there  shone  the  light 
above  the  door  of  the  house  in  which  she  was  at  this  moment. 
How  would  it  be  now  ? 

A  hard,  resolute  look  came  into  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  face  as  she 
walked  past  the  block  of  flats  at  the  top  of  the  square.  She  had 
a  definite  and  strong  feeling  that  she  must  keep  Craven  as  her 
friend,  that  she  might  need  him  in  the  future.  And  of  what 
use  is  a  man  who  belongs  to  another  woman  ? 

Arabian  had  told  her  that  day  that  he  had  found  a  flat  which 
suited  him  in  Chelsea  looking  over  the  river,  and  that  he  was 
leaving  the  Charing  Cross  hotel.  For  some  reason  the  news 
had  startled  her.  He  had  spoken  in  a  casual  way,  but  his  eyes 
had  not  been  casual  as  they  looked  into  hers.  And  she  had  felt 
that  Arabian  had  taken  a  step  forward,  that  he  was  moving^ 
towards  some  project  with  which  she  was  connected  in  his 
mind,  and  that  the  taking  of  this  flat  was  part  of  the  project.    . 

She  must  not  lose  Craven  as  a  friend.  If  she  did  she  would 
lose  one  on  whom  she  was  beginning  to  rely.  Women  are  of 
no  use  in  certain  contingencies,  and  a  beautiful  woman  can 
seldom  thoroughly  trust  another  woman.  Miss  Van  Tuyn 
absolutely  trusted  no  woman.  But  she  trusted  Craven.  She 
thought  she  must  be  very  fond  of  him.  And  yet  she  had  none 
of  the  feeling  for  him  which  persecuted  her  now  when  she  was 
with  Arabian.  Arabian  drew  her  in  an  almost  occult  way.  She 
felt  his  tug  like  the  mysterious  tug  of  water  when  one  stands 
near  a  weir  in  a  river.  When  she  was  with  him  she  sometimes 
had  a  physical  impulse  to  lean  backward.  And  that  came 
because  of  another  strong  and  opposing  impulse  which  seemed 
mental. 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  337 

Adela  should  not  entice  Craven  back  to  her.  She  was  long 
past  the  age  of  needing  trusty  comrades  and  possible  helpers, 
in  Beryl's  opinion.  Whatever  she  did,  or  hoped,  or  wanted,  or 
strove  for,  life  was  really  over  for  her,  the  life  that  is  life,  with 
its  unsuspected  turns,  and  intrigues,  and  passions  and  startling 
occurrences.  Even  if  for  a  time  a  man  such  as  Craven  were 
hypnotized  by  a  woman's  strong  will-power,  such  an  unnatural 
condition  could  not  possibly  last.  But  Beryl  made  up  her  mind 
that  she  would  not  suffer  even  a  short  interim  of  power  exer- 
cised by  Adela.  Even  for  poor  Adela's  own  sake  such  an 
interim  was  undesirable.  It  would  only  lead  to  suffering.  And 
while  it  lasted  she,  Beryl,  might  need  something  and  lack  it. 
That  must  not  be.  Adela  was  finished,  and  she  must  learn  to 
understand  that  she  was  finished.  No  woman  ought  to  seek  to 
prolong  her  reign  beyond  a  certain  age.  If  Adela  had  come 
back  with  her  sheaves  they  must  be  resolutely  scattered  to  the 
winds — by  somebody. 

Arabian  had  taken  a  flat  in  Chelsea  looking  over  the  river. 
Evidently  he  was  going  to  settle  down  in  London. 

"But  I  live  in  Paris !"  thought  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  as  she  pushed 
Lady  Sellingworth's  bell. 

Her  ladyship  was  at  home,  and  Miss  Van  Tuyn  mounted  the 
stairs  full  of  expectation. 

When  she  came  into  the  big  drawing-room  she  noticed  at 
once  how  dimly  lit  it  was.  Besides  the  firelight  there  was  only 
one  electric  lamp  turned  on,  and  that  was  protected  by  a  rather 
large  shade,  and  stood  on  a  table  at  some  distance  from  Lady 
Sellingworth's  sofa.  A  tall  figure  got  up  from  this  sofa  as 
Miss  Van  Tuyn  made  her  way  towards  the  fire,  and  the  well- 
remembered  and  very  individual  husky  voice  said : 

"Dear  Beryl !  It's  good  of  you  to  come  to  see  me  so  soon.  I 
only  arrived  on  Saturday." 

"Dearest !    But  how  dark  it  is !    I  can  scarcely  see  you." 

"I  love  to  give  the  firelight  a  chance.  Didn't  you  know  that  ? 
Come  and  sit  down  and  tell  me  what  you  have  been  doing. 
You  have  quite  given  up  Paris?" 

"Yes,  for  the  time.  I've  become  engrossed  in  painting.  Dick 
Garstin  has  given  me  the  run  of  his  studio.  But  where  have 
you  been  ?" 

As  she  put  the  question  Miss  Van  Tuyn  looked  closely  at  her 


S38  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

friend,  and,  in  spite  of  the  dimness,  she  noticed  a  difference  in 
her  appearance.  The  white  hair  still  crowned  the  beautifully 
shaped  head,  but  it  looked  thicker,  more  alive  than  formerly. 
The  change  which  struck  her  most,  however,  was  in  the  appear- 
ance of  the  face.  It  seemed,  she  thought,  markedly  younger 
and  fresher,  smoother  than  she  remembered  it,  firmer  in  texture. 
Surely  some,  many  even,  of  the  wrinkles  had  disappeared.  And 
the  lips,  once  so  pale  and  weary,  were  rosy  now — if  the  light 
was  not  deceiving  her.  The  invariable  black  dress,  too,  had 
vanished.  Adela  wore  a  lovely  gown  of  a  deep  violet  colour 
and  had  a  violet  band  in  her  hair.  She  sat  very  upright.  Her 
tall  figure  seemed  almost  braced  up.  And  surely  she  looked 
less  absolutely  natural  than  usual.  There  was  something — a 
slight  hardness,  perhaps,  a  touch  of  conscious  imperiousness 
in  look  and  manner,  a  watchful  something — which  made  Miss 
Van  Tuyn  for  a  moment  think  of  a  photograph  she  had  seen  on 
a  member  of  the  "old  guard's"  table. 

The  sheaves!     The  sheaves! 

But  the  girl  longed  for  more  light.  She  knew  she  was  not 
deceived  entirely  by  the  dimness,  but  she  longed  for  crude 
revelation.  Already  her  mind  was  busily  at  work  on  the  future. 
She  felt,  although  she  had  only  been  in  the  room  for  two  or 
three  minutes,  that  the  Lady  Sellingworth  who  had  just  come 
back  to  London  must  presently  be  her  enemy.  And  she  wished 
to  get  in  the  first  blow,  since  blows  there  would  have  to  be. 

"Where  have  I  been?"  said  Lady  Sellingworth.  "In  the 
place  of  the  swans — in  Geneva." 

"Geneva !  We  thought  you  had  gone  to  the  Riviera,  probably 
to  Cap  Martin." 

"I  did  go  to  the  Riviera  first." 

"It  must  have  been  a  desert." 

"Not  quite.  Cannes  would  have  been  quite  pleasant.  But  I 
had  to  go  on  to  Geneva  to  see  a  friend." 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  thought  of  Lausanne,  of  doctors.  Many 
women  whom  she  knew  in  Paris  swore  by  the  doctors  of  Berne 
and  Lausanne.  There  were  wonderful  treatments  now  for  old 
women.  Extraordinary  things  were  done  with  monkey  glands 
and  other  mysterious  preparations  and  inoculations.  Was  not 
Adela's  manner  changed?    Did  she  not  diffuse  an  atmosphere 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  339 

of  intention,  of  vigour,  which  had  not  been  hers  before?  Did 
she  not  seem  younger? 

"Did  you  stay  at  the  Beau  Rivage?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  I  did." 

"We  have  missed  you." 

"I  like  to  think  that." 

"London  loses  its  most  characteristic  note  for  me  when  you 
are  not  in  it." 

Miss  Van  Tuyn's  curiosity  was  becoming  intense,  but  how 
could  she  gratify  it?  She  sought  about  for  an  opening,  but 
found  none.  For  it  was  seldom  her  way  to  be  quite  blunt  with 
women,  though  with  men  she  was  often  blunt. 

"Everyone  has  been  wondering  where  you  were,"  she  said. 
"Mr.  Braybrooke  was  quite  in  a  turmoil.  Does  he  know  you 
are  back  ?" 

"I  haven't  told  him.  But  he  gets  to  know  everything  in  less 
than  five  minutes.    And  what  have  you  been  doing  ?" 

This  simple  question  suddenly  gave  Miss  Van  Tuyn  the  idea 
for  a  plan  of  campaign.  It  sprang  into  her  brain,  flashed  upon 
it  like  an  inspiration.  For  a  moment  she  was  rigid.  Her  body 
was  strongly  influenced.  Then  as  the  idea  made  itself  at  home 
in  her  she  became  supple  and  soft  again. 

"I've  got  a  lot  to  tell  you,"  she  said,  "if  you  won't  be  bored." 

"You  never  bore  me.  Beryl." 

"No,  I  don't  believe  I  do.  Well,  first  I  must  tell  you  how 
good  Dick  Garstin  has  been  to  me." 

"Garstin  the  painter?" 

"Yes." 

And  she  enlarged  upon  her  intense  interest  in  painting,  her 
admiration  for  Garstin's  genius,  her  curiosity  about  his  methods 
and  aims,  her  passion  for  understanding  the  arts  although  she 
could  not  create  herself.  Lady  Sellingworth,  who  knew  the 
girl's  genuine  interest  in  all  art  developments,  listened  quite 
convinced  of  Beryl's  sincerity.  Arabian  was  never  mentioned. 
Miss  Van  Tuyn  did  not  go  into  details.  She  spoke  only  of 
models,  of  Garstin's  varying  moods,  of  his  way  of  getting  a 
thing  on  to  canvas,  of  his  views  on  colour  and  technique. 

"It  must  be  absorbingly  interesting  to  watch  such  a  man  at 
work,"  Lady  Sellingworth  said  presently. 

"It  is.    It's  fascinating." 


840  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

"And  so  that  is  the  reason  why  you  are  staying  so  long  in 
smoky  old  London  ?" 

"No,  Adela,  it  isn't.    At  least,  that's  not  the  only  reason." 

The  words  were  spoken  slowly  and  were  followed  by  a  curi- 
ously conscious,  almost,  indeed,  embarrassed  look  from  the  girl's 
violet  eyes. 

"No?" 

After  a  rather  long  pause  Beryl  said : 

"You  know  I  have  always  looked  upon  you  as  a  book  of 
wisdom." 

"It's  very  difficult  to  be  wise,"  said  Lady  Sellingworth,  with 
a  touch  of  bitterness..    "And  sometimes  very  dull." 

"But  you  are  wise,  dearest.  I  feel  it.  You  have  known  and 
done  so  much,  and  you  have  had  brains  to  understand,  to  suck 
out  the  truth  from  experience.  You  have  lived  with  under- 
standing. You  are  not  like  the  people  who  travel  round  the 
world  and  come  back  just  the  same  as  if  they  had  been  from 
Piccadilly  Circus  to  Hampstead  Heath  and  back.  One  feels 
you  have  been  round  the  world  when  one  is  with  you." 

"Does  one?"  said  Lady  Sellingworth,  rather  drily.  "But 
I  fancied  nowadays  the  young  thought  all  the  wisdom  lay  with 
them." 

"Well,  I  don't.  And,  besides,  I  think  you  are  marvellously 
discreet." 

"Wise !  Discreet !  I  begin  to  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  sit  on  the 
Bench !" 

Again  there  was  the  touch  of  bitterness  in  the  voice.  A  very 
faint  smile  hovered  for  an  instant  about  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  lips. 

"Judging  the  foolish  women !  Well,  I  think  you  are  one  of 
the  few  who  would  have  a  right  to  do  that.  You  are  so  mar- 
vellously sensible." 

"Anyhow,  I  have  no  wish  to  do  it.  But — you  were  going 
to  tell  me?" 

"In  confidence." 

"Of  course.  The  book  of  wisdom  never  opens  its  leaves  to 
the  mob." 

"I  want  very  much  to  know  your  opinion  of  young  Alick 
Craven." 

As  she  heard  the  word  "young"  Lady  Sellingworth  had  great 
difficulty  in  keeping  her  face  still.    Her  mouth  wanted  to  writhe, 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  341 

to  twist  to  the  left.  She  had  the  same  intense  shooting  feeling 
that  had  hurt  her  when  Seymour  Portman  had  called  Alick 
Craven  a  boy. 

"Of  Mr.  Craven!"  she  said,  with  sudden  severe  reserve. 
"Why?    Why?" 

Directly  she  had  spoken  she  regretted  the  repetition.  Her 
mind  felt  stiff,  unyielding.    And  all  her  body  felt  stiff  too. 

"That's  what  I  want  to  tell  you,"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  speak- 
ing with  some  apparent  embarrassment. 

And  immediately  Lady  Sellingworth  knew  that  she  did  not 
want  to  hear,  that  it  would  be  dangerous,  almost  deadly,  for 
her  to  hear.  She  longed  to  spread  out  her  hands  in  the  pro- 
testing gesture  of  one  keeping  something  off,  away  from  her, 
to  say,  "Don't !  Don't !  I  won't  hear !"  And  she  sat  very 
still,  and  murmured  a  casual  "Yes  ?" 

And  then  Miss  Van  Tuyn  shot  her  bolt  very  cleverly,  her 
aim  being  careful  and  good,  her  hand  steady  as  a  rock,  her 
eyes  fixed  undeviatingly  on  the  object  she  meant  to  bring  down. 
She  consulted  Lady  Sellingworth  about  her  great  friendship 
with  Craven,  told  Lady  Sellingworth  how  for  some  time,  "ever 
since  the  night  we  all  went  to  the  theatre,"  Craven  had  been 
seeking  her  out  persistently,  spoke  of  his  visits,  their  dinners 
together,  their  games  of  golf  at  Beaconsfield,  finally  came  to 
Sunday,  "yesterday." 

"In  the  morning  the  tele  hone  rang  and  we  had  a  little  talk. 
A  Daimler  car  was  sugge:  cd  and  a  run  down  to  Rye.  You 
know  my  American  ideas,  Adela.  A  long  day  alone  in  the 
country  with  a  boy " 

"Mr.  Craven  is  scarcely  a  boy,  I  think!" 

"But  we  call  them  boys!" 

"Oh,  yes!" 

"With  a  boy  means  nothing  extraordinary  to  a  girl  with  my 
ideas.  But  I  think  he  took  it  rather  differently.  Anyhow, 
we  spent  the  whole  day  out  playing  golf  together,  and  in  the 
evening,  when  twilight  was  coming  on,  we  drove  to  Camber 
Sands.    Do  you  know  them?" 

"No." 

"They  are  vast  and  absolutely  deserted.  It  was  rather  stormy, 
but  we  took  a  long  walk  on  them,  and  then  sat  on  a  sand  bank 


342  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

to  watch  the  night  coming  on.     I  dare  say  it  all  sounds  very 
ridiculous  and  sentimental  to  you !    I  am  sure  it  must !" 

"No,  no.    Besides,  I  know  you  Americans  do  all  these  things 
with  no  sentiment  at  all,  merely  pour  passer  le  temps" 
"Yes,  sometimes.    But  he  isn't  an  American." 
Again  she  looked  sHghtly  embarrassed  and  seemed  to  hesitate. 

"You  mean — ^you  think  that  he ?" 

"It  was  that  evening  .  .  .  last  night  only,  in  fact " 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course  it  was  last  night.  To-day  is  Monday." 
"That  I  began  to  realize  that  we  were  getting  into  a  rather 
different  relation  to  each  other.  When  it  began  to  get  dark 
he  wanted  to  hold  my  hand  and — but  I  needn't  go  into  all  that. 
It  would  only  seem  silly  to  you.  You  see,  we  are  both  young, 
though,  of  course,  he  is  older  than  I.  But  he  is  very  young, 
quite  a  boy  in  feeling  and  even  in  manner  very  often.  I  have 
seen  him  lately  in  all  sorts  of  circumstances,  so  I  know." 

She  stopped  as  if  thinking.  Lady  Sellingworth  sat  very  up- 
right on  her  sofa,  with  her  head  held  rather  high,  and  her  hands, 
in  their  long  white  gloves,  quite  still.  And  there  was  a  moment 
of  absolute  silence  in  the  drawing-room.  At  last  Miss  Van 
Tuyn  spoke  again. 

"I  feel  since  last  night  that  things  are  different  between  Alick 
and  me." 

"Are  you  engaged  to  him — to  Mr.  Craven?" 
"Oh,  no.     He  hasn't  asked  me  to  be.     But  I  want  to  know 
what  3'ou  think  of  him.     It  would  help  me.     I  like  him  very 
much.    But  you  know  far  more  about  men  than  I  do." 

"I  doubt  it.  Beryl.     I  see  scarcely  anyone  now.     You  live 

in  Paris  surrounded  by  clever  men  and " 

"But  you  have  had  decades  more  of  experience  than  I  have. 
In  fact,  yon  have  been  round  the  world  and  I  have,  so  to  speak, 
only  crossed  the  Channel.  Do  help  me,  Adela.  I  am  full  of 
hesitation  and  doubt,  and  yet  I  am  getting  very  fond  of  Alick. 
And  I  don't  want  to  hurt  him.     I  think  I  hurt  him  a  little 

yesterday,  but " 

"Sir  Seymour  Portman!"  said  Murgatroyd's  heavy  voice  at 
the  door. 

And  the  old  courtier  entered  almost  eagerly,  his  dark  eyes 
shining  under  the  thatch  of  eyebrows  and  the  white  gleam  of 
the  "cauliflower." 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  343 

And  very  soon  Miss  Van  Tuyn  went  away,  without  the  advice 
which  she  was  so  anxious  to  have.  As  she  walked  through 
Berkeley  Square  she  felt  more  at  ease  than  when  she  had  come 
into  it.  But  she  was  puzzled  about  something.  And  she  said 
to  herself : 

"Can  she  have  tried  monkey  glands  too?" 


CHAPTER  V 

LADY  SELLINGWORTH  of  course  understood  Beryl's 
purpose  in  visiting  her  so  soon  and  in  being  so  unreserved 
to  her.  The  girl's  intention  was  absolutely  clear  to  her  mind 
horribly  experienced  in  the  cruel  ways  of  women.  Neverthe- 
less she  believed  that  Beryl  had  spoken  the  truth  about  what 
had  happened  at  Camber. 

When  it  began  to  get  dark  Craven  had  wanted  to  hold  Beryl's 
hand. 

Lady  Sellingworth  felt  that  she  hated  Beryl,  hated  Alick 
Craven.  And  herself?  She  did  not  want  to  contemplate  her- 
self. It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  fastened  up  with,  chained 
to,  a  being  she  longed  to  ignore,  to  be  without  knowledge  of. 
Something  of  her  was  struggling  to  be  away  from  something 
else  of  her  that  was  hideous.  Battle,  confusion,  dust,  dying 
cries,  flying,  terror-stricken  feet!  She  was  aware  of  tumult 
and  despair  in  the  silence  of  her  beautiful  house.  And  she  was 
aware  also  of  that  slow  and  terrible  creeping  of  hatred,  the 
thing  that  did  harm  to  her,  that  set  her  far  away  from  any 
nobility  she  possessed. 

She  had  gone  abroad  to  fight,  and  had  come  back  having 
lost  her  battle.  And  already  she  was  being  scourged  for  her 
failure. 

While  she  had  been  striving  alone  these  two  had  evidently 
forgotten  her  existence.  Directly  she  had  passed  for  a  short 
time  out  of  their  lives  they  had  come  together.  Youth  had 
instinctively  sought  out  youth,  and  she,  the  old  woman,  had 
been  as  one  dead  to  them.  If  she  had  stayed  away  for  years, 
if  she  had  never  come  back,  it  would  not  have  mattered  to  them. 

Beryl's  lack  of  all  affection  for  her  did  not  seriously  trouble 
her.  She  knew  the  dryness  of  vanity;  she  knew  that  it  was 
practically  impossible  for  a  girl  so  vain  as  Beryl  to  care  deeply, 
or  at  all  unselfishly,  for  another  woman.  But  Craven's  con- 
duct was  not  what  she  had  looked  for.     It  seemed  to  stamp 

344 


CHAPTER  V  DECEMBER  LOVE  345 

him  as  typical,  and  she  had  supposed  him  to  be  exceptional. 
When  Beryl  had  told  her  about  Camber — so  little  and  yet  so 
much — she  had  been  struck  to  the  heart ;  and  yet  she  had  seen 
a  vision  of  servants,  the  footman  out  in  the  dark  with  the  under 
housemaid. 

Seymour  Portman's  observant  old  eyes,  the  terrible  eyes  of 
affection,  took  in  the  change  in  her,  not  quite  as  a  woman's 
eyes  would  have  done,  but  in  their  own  adequate  way.  His 
Adela  looked  different.  Something  had  happened  to  her.  The 
envelope  had  been  touched  up  in  some,  to  him,  quite  mysterious 
manner.  And  he  did  not  like  it.  It  even  gave  him  a  mild  sort 
of  shock.  The  touch  of  artificiality  was  cold  on  this  amazingly 
straightforward  old  man.  He  loved  his  Adela  with  all  the 
wrinkles,  with  the  sagging  skin,  and  the  lined  throat,  and  the 
furiously  experienced  weariness  about  the  temples.  She  lived 
/or  him  in  the  brilliant  eyes,  and  was  loved  by  him  in  them. 
And  why  should  she  suddenly  try  to  change  her  appearance? 
It  had  certainly  not  been  done  for  him — this  Something.  She 
was  looking  handsomer  than  usual,  and  yet  he  seemed  to  be 
aware  that  beneath  the  improved  surface  there  was  a  tragic 
haggardness  which  had  come  into  existence  while  she  had 
been  away. 

He  did  not  reproach  her  for  the  mystery  of  her  absence,  or 
for  her  silence;  he  did  not  ask  her  questions  about  where  she 
had  been,  what  she  had  done;  he  just  sat  with  her  and  loved 
her.  And  his  love  made  her  horribly  uneasy  that  day.  She 
could  not  be  still  under  it.  She  felt  as  if  the  soul  of  her  kept 
shifting  about,  as  a  child  shifts  about  under  the  watchful  eyes 
of  an  elder.  She  felt  the  physical  tingle  of  guilt.  And  she 
was  thankful  when  at  last  Seymour  went  away  and  left  her 
alone  with  her  hatred. 

All  those  weeks !  She  had  deliberately  left  the  ground  free 
to  Beryl  for  all  those  weeks,  and  she  had  returned  with  no 
expectation  of  the  thing  that  of  course  had  happened.  And  yet 
she  had  believed  that  she  had  an  excellent  knowledge  of  life 
and  of  human  beings.  No  doubt  she  had  been  so  concentrated 
upon  herself,  and  the  struggle  within  herself,  that  she  had 
been  unable  to  make  any  use  of  that  knowledge.  And  so  now 
she  was  full  of  hatred  and  of  profound  humiliation. 

When  she  had  abruptly  left  England  she  had  made  up  her 


346  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

mind  to  "have  done  with  it,"  that  is  to  have  done  with  love, 
to  have  done  even  with  sentimental  friendship.  She  had 
resolved  to  plunge  into  complete  loneliness.  Since  she  could 
not  take  Seymour  into  her  intimate  life,  since  she  now  knew 
that  was  absolutely  impossible,  she  must  somehow  manage  to 
get  along  permanently  with  nothing.  And  so,  yielding  to  a 
desperate  impulse,  she  had  resolved  to  seek  an  unaccustomed 
solitude.  She  had  fled  from  London.  But  she  had  stopped 
in  Paris;  although  she  had  intended  to  pass  through  it  and 
to  go  straight  on  to  Marseilles  and  the  Riviera.  When  the 
train  had  run  in  to  the  Gare  du  Nord  she  had  told  her  sur- 
prised maid  that  she  was  tired  and  would  not  go  on  that  night. 
Suddenly  she  had  decided  to  seek  out  Caroline  Briggs,  to  make 
a  confession,  to  ask  for  help  and  sympathy.  And  she  had  sent 
her  maid  to  a  hotel,  and  had  driven  to  Caroline's  house. 

But  Caroline  was  not  in  Paris.  A  blue-cheeked,  close-shaven 
French  footman  had  informed  her  that  his  mistress  had  been 
obliged  to  sail  for  America  three  days  before. 

It  had  been  a  great  blow  to  her.  Confession,  the  cry  for 
help,  had  been  almost  on  her  lips  as  she  had  stood  at  the  door 
before  the  keen-eyed  young  man.  And  she  had  gone  away 
feeling  strangely  lost  and  abandoned. 

On  the  following  morning  she  had  left  Paris  and  had  trav- 
elled to  the  Riviera.  And,  there,  she  had  fought  against  her- 
self and  had  lost  the  battle. 

Perhaps  if  she  had  been  able  to  see  Caroline  the  issue  would 
have  been  different.  She  almost  believed  that  if  she  had  once 
told  the  absolute  truth  about  herself  to  someone  she  might 
have  found  the  courage  to  put  personal  dignity  in  its  right 
place  at  the  head  of  her  life  as  the  arbiter  of  what  must  not 
be  done.  Although  she  had  defied  Caroline  ten  years  ago,  and 
had  been  punished  for  her  defiance,  she  still  had  a  deep  belief 
in  Caroline's  strength  of  character  and  clear  insight.  And  she 
knew  that  Caroline  was  really  fond  of  her. 

But  Fate  had  removed  her  friend  from  her.  And  was  it  not 
because  of  that  removal  that  she  had  lost  her  battle?  The 
sense  of  loneliness,  of  a  cold  finality,  had  been  too  great  for  her. 
She  had  had  too  much  time  for  remembrance.  And  she  had 
remembered  certain  hours  with  Craven  by  the  fire,  had  remem- 
bered the  human  warmth  of  them,  till  the  longing  for  happiness 


CHAPTER  V  DECEMBER  LOVE  347 

had  overpowered  everything  else  in  her.  They  had  been  very 
happy  together.  She  had  been  able  to  make  him  happy.  His 
eager  eyes  had  shown  it.  And  their  joy  had  been  quite  inno- 
cent; there  had  been  no  harm  in  it  at  all.  Why  should  she 
deliberately  forego  such  innocent  contentment  ?  Walking  alone 
on  the  sea  front  at  Cannes  in  the  warm  and  brilliant  weather 
she  had  asked  herself  that  question.  If  Craven  were  there! 
And  in  the  long  loneliness  she  had  begun  presently,  as  often 
before,  to  try  to  cheat  herself.  The  drastic  heart  of  London 
had  seemed  to  change  into  another  heart.  And  at  last  she  had 
followed  the  example  of  a  woman  in  Paris  some  ten  years  ago. 

She  had  as  it  were  got  out  of  the  train  once  more. 

She  had  not,  perhaps,  been  fully  conscious  of  the  terrible 
repetition  brought  about  by  a  temperament  which  apparently 
refused  to  change.  She  had  no  doubt  tried  to  deceive  herself, 
though  she  had  not  deceived  herself  ten  years  ago  at  the  Gare 
du  Nord.  She  had  even  lied  to  herself,  saying  that  in  London 
she  had  given  way  to  a  foolish  and  morbid  mood  of  fear,  in- 
duced in  her  by  memories  of  disasters  in  the  past,  that  she 
had  imagined  danger  where  no  danger  existed.  In  London 
panic  had  seized  her.  But  now  in  a  different  atmosphere  and 
environment,  quite  alone  and  able,  therefore,  to  consider  things 
carefully  and  quietly,  to  see  them  in  their  true  light,  she  had 
told  herself  that  it  was  preposterous  to  give  up  an  innocent  joy 
merely  because  long  ago  she  had  been  subject  to  folly.  Ten 
years  had  elapsed  since  her  last  fit  of  folly.  She  must  have 
changed  since  then.  It  was  inevitable  that  she  had  changed. 
She  had  lied  to  herself  in  London  when  she  had  told  herself 
that  Craven  would  be  satisfied  in  their  friendship  while  she 
would  be  almost  starving.  Her  subsequent  prayer  had  been  an- 
swered. Passion  was  dead  in  her.  A  tender,  almost  a  motherly 
feeling — that  really  was  what  she  felt  and  would  always  feel 
for  Alick  Craven.  She  need  not  fear  such  a  feeling.  She 
would  not  fear  it.  Morbidity  had  possessed  her.  The  sun- 
shine of  Cannes  had  driven  it  away.  She  had  presently  been 
glad  that  she  had  not  found  Caroline  in  Paris.  For  if  she 
had  made  that  confession  she  would  have  put  an  obstacle  in 
the  path  which  she  now  resolved  to  tread. 

She  had  told  herself  that,  and  finally  she  had  decided  to 
return  to  London. 


348  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

But  she  had  gone  first  to  Geneva,  and  had  put  herself  there 
into  the  hands  of  a  certain  specialist,  whose  fame  had  recently 
reached  the  ears  of  a  prominent  member  of  the  "old  guard,"  no 
other  than  the  Duchess  of  Wellingborough. 

And  now  she  had  come  back  with  her  sheaves  and  had  been 
met  on  the  threshold  by  Beryl  with  her  hideous  confidences. 

She  had  not  yet  told  Craven  of  her  return.  For  the  moment 
she  was  glad  that  she  had  not  given  way  to  her  impulse  and 
telephoned  to  him  on  the  Sunday.  She  might  have  caught  him 
with  her  message  just  as  he  was  starting  for  Rye  with  Beryl. 
That  would  have  been  horrible.  Of  course  she  would  not  tele- 
phone to  him  now.  She  resolved  to  ignore  him.  He  had  for- 
gotten all  about  her.  She  would  seem  to  forget  about  him. 
There  was  nothing  else  to  be  done.  Pride,  the  pride  of  the 
Grande  Dame  which  she  had  never  totally  lost,  rose  up  in  her, 
hot,  fiery  even;  it  mingled  with  an  intense  jealousy,  and  made 
her  wish  to  inflict  punishment.  She  was  like  a  wounded  ani- 
mal that  longs  to  strike,  to  tear  with  its  claws,  to  lacerate  and 
leave  bleeding.  Nevertheless  she  had  no  intention  of  taking 
action  against  either  of  those  who  had  hurt  her.  Beryl  should 
have  her  triumph.  Youth  should  be  left  in  peace  with  its  own 
cruelty. 

Two  days  passed  before  Craven  knew  of  Lady  Sellingworth's 
return  to  Berkeley  Square.  Braybrooke  told  him  of  it  in  the 
club,  and  added  the  information  that  she  had  arrived  on  the 
previous  Saturday. 

"Oh!"  said  Craven,  with  apparent  indifference.  "Have  you 
seen  her?" 

Braybrooke  replied  that  he  had  seen  her,  and  that  she  was 
looking,  in  his  opinion,  remarkably  well,  even  somewhat  younger 
than  usual. 

"She  seems  to  have  had  an  excellent  time  on  the  Riviera  and 
in  Switzerland." 

"In  Switzerland !"  said  Craven,  thinking  of  Braybrooke's  re- 
marks about  Catherine  Bewdley  and  Lausanne. 

"Yes,  but  I  don't  think  she  has  been  ill.  I  ventured  to — 
just  to  say  a  word  as  to  doctors,  and  she  assured  me  she  had 
been  perfectly  well  all  the  time  she  was  away.  Are  you  going 
to  see  her?" 


CHAPTER  V  DECEMBER  LOVE  349 

"I've  got  a  good  deal  to  do  just  now,"  said  Craven,  coldly 
and  with  a  slight  rise  of  colour.  "But  of  course  I  hope  to  see 
Lady  Sellingworth  again  some  day.  She  is  a  charming  woman. 
It's  always  a  pleasure  to  have  a  talk  with  her." 

"Yes,  indeed !  By  the  way,  who  is  Beryl  Van  Tuyn's  ex- 
traordinarily good-looking  young  friend?  Do  you  happen  to 
know?" 

"What  friend?"  asked  Craven,  with  sudden  sharpness. 

"The  tall  man  she  has  been  seen  about  with  lately." 

"I  don't  know." 

After  a  slight  pause,  very  intentional  on  Braybrooke's  part, 
Craven  added : 

"Miss  Van  Tuyn  knows  such  lots  of  people." 

"To  be  sure!  And  Lady  Archie,  though  a  dear  woman,  is 
perhaps  a  little  inclined  to  gossip." 

"Lady  Archie  Brooke?" 

"Yes.  She  has  met  Miss  Van  Tuyn  two  or  three  times 
in  Glebe  Place,  it  seems,  walking  with  a  man  whom  she  describes 
as  a  marvel  of  good  looks.  But  there's  Antring.  I  must  have 
a  word  with  him.    He  is  just  over  from  Paris." 

And  Braybrooke  walked  away  with  his  usual  discreet  gait. 
He  was  feeling  decidedly  satisfied.  Young  Craven  had  cer- 
tainly not  been  pleased  with  the  information  so  casually  im- 
parted. It  had  aroused — Braybrooke  was  convinced  of  it — a 
sensation  of  jealousy  which  promised  well  for  the  future.  Bray- 
brooke was  almost  sure  now  that  his  young  friend  had  fallen 
thoroughly  in  love  with  Beryl  Van  Tuyn.  The  coldness  about 
Adela  Sellingworth,  the  sudden  touch  of  heat  about  Beryl 
Van  Tuyn,  surely  indicated  that.  Braybrooke  was  not  seriously 
upset  about  Lady  Archie's  remarks.  She  really  was  a  tremen- 
dous gossip,  although  of  course  a  delightful  woman.  And  Miss 
Van  Tuyn  was  always  surrounded  by  men.  Nevertheless  he 
was  decidedly  curious  about  the  good-looking  stranger  who 
had  been  seen  in  Glebe  Place.  He  had  a  retentive  memory,  and 
had  not  forgotten  Dick  Garstin's  extraordinary  remark  about 
the  blackmailer. 

Braybrooke  was  not  mistaken  about  Craven.  The  informa- 
tion about  Adela  Sellingworth  had  renewed  Craven's  almost 
hot  sense  of  injury.  Braybrooke  did  not  understand  that. 
But  the  subsequent  remark  about  Beryl  Van  Tuyn  had  added 


S50  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

fuel  to  the  f«re,  and  the  sharp  jealousy  of  sensitive  youth 
mingled  with  the  feeling  of  injury.  Craven  had  been  hurt  by 
the  elderly  woman.  Was  he  now  to  be  hurt  by  the  girl  ?  Bray- 
brooke's  news  had  made  him  feel  really  angry.  Yet  he  knew 
he  had  no  right  to  be  angry.  He  began  to  wish  that  he  had 
never  gone  to  Berkeley  Square  on  that  autumn  afternoon,  had 
never  met  the  two  women  who  were  beginning  to  complicate 
his  life.  For  a  moment  he  thought  of  dropping  them  both.  But 
had  not  one  of  them  already  dropped  him?  He  would  cer- 
tainly not  call  again  in  Berkeley  Square.  If  Lady  Selling- 
worth  did  not  ask  him  to  go  there  he  would  not  attempt  to 
see  her.  He  was  not  going  to  fight  for  her  friendship.  And 
as  to  Beryl  Van  Tuyn 

The  curious  name — Nicolas  Arabian — came  into  his  mind 
and  a  conversation  in  a  box  at  a  theatre.  Miss  Van  Tuyn  had 
told  him  about  this  magnificently  handsome  man,  this  "liv- 
ing bronze,"  but  somehow  he  had  never  thought  of  her  as 
specially  intimate  with  a  fellow  who  frequented  the  Cafe  Royal, 
and  who  apparently  sat  as  a  model  to  painters.  But  now  he 
realized  that  this  must  be  the  man  of  Glebe  Place,  and  he  felt 
more  angry,  more  injured  than  before. 

Yet  he  was  not  in  love  with  Beryl  Van  Tuyn.  Or  had  he 
fallen  in  love  with  her  without  being  aware  of  it?  She  at- 
tracted him  very  much  physically  at  times.  She  amused  him, 
interested  him.  He  liked  being  with  her.  He  was  angry  at 
the  thought  of  another  man's  intimacy  with  her.  He  wanted 
her  to  be  fond  of  him,  to  need  him,  to  prefer  him  to  all  other 
men.  But  he  often  felt  critical  about  her,  about  her  char- 
acter, though  not  about  her  beauty.  A  lover  surely  could  not 
feel  like  that.    A  lover  just  loved,  and  there  was  an  end  of  it. 

He  could  not  understand  his  own  feelings.  But  when  he 
thought  of  Beryl  Van  Tuyn  he  felt  full  of  the  fighting  instinct, 
and  ready  to  take  the  initiative.  He  would  never  fight  to  retain 
Lady  Sellingworth's  friendship,  but  he  would  fight  to  assert 
himself  with  the  beautiful  American.  She  should  not  take  him 
up  and  use  him  merely  as  a  means  to  amusement  without  any 
care  for  what  was  due  to  him.  Lady  Sellingworth  was  old, 
and  in  a  sense  famous.  Such  a  woman  could  do  as  she  pleased. 
With  her,  protest  would  be  ridiculous.  But  he  would  find  a 
way  with  Beryl  Van  Tuyn. 


CHAPTER  V  DECEMBER  LOVE  351 

On  that  day  and  the  next  Craven  did  not  see  Miss  Van 
Tuyn.  No  message  came  to  him  from  Lady  Sellingworth. 
Evidently  the  latter  wished  to  have  nothing  more  to  do  with 
him.  She  had  now  been  in  London  for  nearly  a  week  without 
letting  him  know  it.  Miss  Van  Tuyn  had  telephoned  once 
suggesting  a  meeting.  But  Craven  had  charmingly  put  her 
off,  alleging  a  tiresome  engagement.  He  did  not  choose  now 
to  seem  eager  to  meet  her.  He  was  considering  what  he  would 
do.  If  he  could  manage  to  meet  her  in  Glebe  Place!  But  how 
to  contrive  such  an  encounter  ?  While  he  was  meditating  about 
this  he  was  again  rung  up  by  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  who  suggested 
that  he  should  play  golf  with  her  at  Beaconsfield  on  the  follow- 
ing day,  Saturday. 

"You  can't  pretend  you  are  working  overtime  at  the  F.O. 
to-morrow,"  she  said. 

Craven  replied  that  the  F.O.  kept  him  very  long  even  on 
Saturdays. 

"What's  the  matter?  What  are  you  angry  about?"  asked 
Miss  Van  Tuyn  through  the  telephone. 

Craven  intended  to  make  a  quietly  evasive  reply,  but  he 
found  himself  saying: 

"If  I  work  overtime  at  the  P.O.,  are  there  not  others  who 
do  much  the  same — in  Glebe  Place?" 

After  a  pause  Miss  Van  Tuyn  said: 

"I  haven't  an  idea  what  you  mean." 

Craven  said  nothing.  Already  he  was  angry  with  himself, 
and  regretted  his  impulsiveness. 

"Well?"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn. 

"Well?"  retorted  Craven,  feeling  rather  absurd. 

Again  there  was  a  pause.  Then,  speaking  quickly,  Miss 
Van  Tuyn  said:  "If  you  can  escape  from  the  F.O.  you  might 
be  in  Glebe  Place  about  five  on  Monday.     Good-bye!" 

And  she  rang  off,  leaving  Craven  with  the  pleasant  sensation 
that,  as  often  before,  he  had  "given  himself  away."  Certainly 
he  had  shown  Miss  Van  Tuyn  his  jealousy.  She  must  have 
guessed  what  his  mention  of  Glebe  Place  meant.  And  yet  she 
had  asked  him  to  go  there  on  the  following  Monday.  If  he  did 
not  go  perhaps  that  neglect  would  cancel  his  imprudence  at 
the  telephone. 


862  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

He  made  up  his  mind  not  to  go. 

Nevertheless,  when  he  left  the  Foreign  Office  on  the  Monday 
about  half-past  four,  instead  of  going  towards  Mayfair  he 
found  himself  walking  quickly  in  the  direction  of   Chelsea. 


CHAPTER  VI 

MISS  VAN  TUYN  was  in  Garstin's  studio  on  that  day. 
Although  apparently  calm  and  self-possessed  she  was 
in  a  condition  of  acute  nervous  excitement.  Craven's  mention 
of  Glebe  Place  through  the  telephone  had  startled  her.  At 
once  she  had  understood.  People  had  begun  to  gossip,  and 
the  gossip  had  reached  Craven's  ears.  She  had  reddened  as 
she  stood  by  the  telephone.  A  definite  sensation  of  anxiety 
mingled  with  shame  had  crept  in  her.  But  it  had  been  suc- 
ceeded by  a  decisive  feeling  more  really  characteristic  of  her. 
As  Craven  now  evidently  knew  of  her  close  acquaintance  with 
Arabian  the  two  men  should  meet.  She  would  conquer  her 
reluctance,  and  put  Arabian  to  the  test  with  Craven.  For  a 
long  time  she  had  wished  to  know  what  Craven  would  think 
of  Arabian ;  for  a  long  time,  too,  she  had  been  afraid  to  know. 
But  now  she  would  hesitate  no  more.  Dick  Garstin  was  to 
have  a  sitting  from  Arabian  on  the  Monday  afternoon.  It 
ought  to  be  over  about  half-past  four.  She  could  easily  man- 
age to  prolong  matters  in  the  studio  till  five,  so  that  Craven 
might  have  time  to  get  to  Glebe  Place  from  the  Foreign  Office. 
Of  course  he  might  not  choose  to  come.  But  if  he  were  really 
jealous  she  thought  he  would  come. 

Now  she  was  anticipating  the  coming  interview  with  an 
uneasiness  which  she  could  only  conceal  by  a  strong  eflFort. 

At  last,  after  repeated  failures,  Garstin  was  beginning  to 
work  with  energy  and  real  satisfaction.  Of  late  he  had  been 
almost  venomous.  His  impotence  to  do  what  he  wished  to  do 
had  made  him  more  disagreeable,  more  brutal  even  than  usual. 
His  habitual  brusqueness  had  often  degenerated  into  down- 
right rudeness.  But  suddenly  a  change  had  come,  one  of  those 
mysterious  changes  in  the  mood  and  powers  of  an  artist  which 
neither  he  nor  anyone  else  can  understand.  Abruptly  the 
force  which  had  abandoned  him  had  returned. 

353 


354  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

This  change  had  occurred  on  the  day  of  Miss  Van  Tuyn's 
conversation  through  the  telephone  with  Craven,  a  Friday. 

Arabian  had  refused  to  sit  on  the  Saturday  and  Sunday. 
He  said  he  was  moving  into  his  Chelsea  flat,  and  had  many 
things  to  do.  He  could  not  come  to  the  studio  again  till  the 
Monday  afternoon  at  half-past  two.  Garstin  had  been  furi- 
ous, but  he  had  been  met  by  a  will  apparently  as  inflexible 
as  his  own. 

"I  am  sorry,  but  I  cannot  help  it,  Dick  Garstin,"  Arabian 
had  said. 

And  after  a  pause  he  had  added: 

"I  hope  I  have  not  shown  impatience  all  this  long  time?" 

Garstin  had  cursed,  but  he  had  not  persisted.  Evidently 
he  had  realized  that  persistence  would  be  useless.  On  the 
Monday  he  had  received  Arabian  with  frigid  hauteur,  but  soon 
he  had  become  intent  on  his  work  and  had  apparently  for- 
gotten his  grievance. 

Half-past  four  struck — then  the  quarter  to  five.  Garstin 
had  been  painting  for  more  than  two  hours.  Now  he  put  down 
his  brush  and  frowned,  stilling  looking  at  Arabian,  who  was 
sitting  in  an  easy,  almost  casual  position,  with  his  magnificent 
brown  throat  and  shoulders  exposed. 

"Finished !"  he  said  in  his  loud  bass  voice. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn,  who  was  curled  up  on  a  divan  in  a  comer 
of  the  studio,  moved  and  put  down  a  book  which  she  had  been 
pretending  to  read.  Garstin  had  forbidden  her  to  come  near 
to  him  that  day  while  he  was  painting. 

"Finished !"  she  exclaimed.     "Do  you  mean " 

"No,  damn  it,  I  don't !"  said  Garstin,  with  exasperation.  "I 
don't !  Do  you  take  me  for  a  magician,  or  what  ?  I  have 
finished  for  to-day !    Now  then !" 

He  began  to  move  the  easel.  Miss  Van  Tuyn  got  up,  and 
Arabian,  without  saying  a  word,  stretched  himself,  looked  at 
her  steadily  for  a  moment,  then  pulled  up  his  silk  vest  and 
carefully  buttoned  it  with  his  strong-looking  fingers.  Then 
he  too  got  up,  and  went  away  to  the  dressing-room  to  put  on 
his  shirt,  waistcoat,  collar  and  tie. 

"May  I  see,  Dick?"  asked  Miss  Van  Tuyn. 

"No,  you  mayn't." 

"Are  you  satisfied?" 


CHAPTER  vx  DECEMBER  LOVE  355 

"He's  coming  out  more  as  I  want  him  this  time." 

"Do  you  think  you  have  found  his  secret?" 

"Or  yours,  eh?    What  is  happening  in  you,  my  girl?" 

Before  she  could  answer  a  telephone  bell  rang  below. 

"Damn !"  said  Garstin,  going  towards  the  staircase. 

Before  he  went  down  he  turned  round  and  said: 

"You're  travelling  fast." 

And  he  disappeared.  She  heard  him  below  tramping  to 
the  telephone.  Then  she  went  to  a  small  square  window  in 
the  studio,  pushed  it  open,  and  looked  out.  There  was  a  tiny 
space  of  garden  below.  She  saw  a  plane  tree  shivering  in 
the  wind,  yellow  leaves  on  the  rain-sodden  ground.  A  sparrow 
flitted  by  and  perched  on  the  grimy  coping  of  a  low  wall. 
And  she  shivered  like  the  plane  tree. 

"Beryl !" 

It  was  Garstin's  voice  roaring  up  from  below. 

"Beryl !" 

She  started,  turned,  and  went  to  the  head  of  the  stairs. 

"What  is  it?" 

"The  telephone's  for  you.     Come  along  down!" 

"Coming!"  she  answered. 

"Who  is  it?"  she  said,  as  she  saw  him  standing  by  the 
telephone  with  the  receiver  in  his  hand. 

"Some  old  woman,  by  the  voice.  She  says  she  must  speak 
to  you.    Here — take  it,  my  girl!" 

"It  must  be  old  Fanny !"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  with  a  touch 
of  irritation,  "Nobody  else  would  know  I  was  here.  But  I 
stupidly  told  Fanny." 

She  took  the  receiver  out  of  his  hand. 

"I'm  here!  Who  is  it?"  she  asked,  as  he  left  her  and  re- 
turned to  the  studio.    "Is  it  you,  Fanny?" 

"Yes !"  replied  a  rather  weak  and  agitated  voice.  "Oh,  my 
dear!     Oh,  Beryl!" 

"What  on  earth  is  the  matter?    Are  you  ill?" 

"No,  no." 

"Then  what  is  it?    Do  make  haste.    I'm  in  a  hurry." 

She  was  thinking  of  Craven.  It  was  nearly  five  o'clock,  and 
she  did  not  want  to  be  late  in  Glebe  Place,  though  she  dreaded 
the  encounter  she  expected  there. 

"Oh,  Beryl,  there's  bad  news !" 


356  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

"Bad  news !    What  news  ?" 

"I  can't  tell  you  like  this." 

"Nonsense !    Tell  me  at  once !" 

"I  can't!  I  simply  cannot.  Oh,  my  dear,  get  into  a  taxi 
and  come  back  at  once." 

"I  insist  on  your  telling  me  what  is  the  matter !"  said  Miss 
Van  Tuyn  sharply. 

Her  nerves  were  already  on  edge,  and  something  in  the 
sound  of  the  voice  through  the  telephone  frightened  her. 

"Tell  me  at  once  what  it  is !     Now  speak  plainly !" 

There  was  a  pause ;  then  the  agitated  voice  said : 

"A  cable  has  come  from  the  Bahamas." 

"The  Bahamas!     Well?    Well?" 

"Your  poor  father  has " 

The  voice  failed. 

"Oh,  do  tell  me!    For  Heaven's  sake,  what  is  it?" 

"Your  poor  father  is  dead.     Oh,  Beryl !" 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  stood  quite  still  for  a  moment. 

"My  father — dead !"  she  thought. 

She  felt  surprised.  She  felt  shocked.  But  she  was  not 
conscious  of  any  real  sorrow.  She  very  seldom  saw  her  father. 
Since  he  had  married  again — he  had  married  a  woman  with 
whom  he  was  very  much  in  love — his  strongly  independent 
daughter  had  faded  into  the  background  of  his  life.  Beryl  had 
not  set  her  eyes  upon  him  during  the  last  eighteen  months. 
It  was  impossible  that  she  could  miss  him  much,  a  father 
with  whom  she  had  spent  for  years  so  little  of  her  time.  She 
knew  that  she  would  not  miss  him.  Yet  she  had  had  a  shock. 
After  an  instant  she  said : 

•   "Thank  you,  Fanny.    I  shall  be  home  very  soon.    Of  course, 
I  shall  leave  the  studio  at  once.    Good-bye." 

She  hung  up  the  receiver  and  went  upstairs  slowly.  And 
as  she  went  she  resolved  not  to  say  anything  about  what  had 
happened  to  Dick  Garstin.  He  was  incapable  of  expressing 
conventional  sympathy,  and  would  probably  say  something 
bizarre  which  would  jar  on  her  nerves  if  she  told  him. 

She  found  the  two  men  standing  together  in  the  studio. 
Arabian  had  on  his  overcoat  and  gloves,  and  was  holding  his 
hat  and  umbrella. 

"It  was  only  Fanny  Cronin!"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  VI  DECEMBER  LOVE  357 

As  she  spoke  she  looked  narrowly  at  Garstin.  Could  Fanny 
have  told  him  the  news  ?  The  casual  expression  on  his  face  set 
her  mind  at  ease  on  that  point.  She  was  certain  that  he  knew 
nothing. 

"I  must  go,"  she  said. 

"I  will  walk  with  you  to  a  taxi  if  you  kindly  allow  me,"  said 
Arabian,  getting  her  fur  coat. 

"Thank  you !" 

As  he  stood  behind  her  helping  her  to  get  into  the  coat  she 
was  conscious  of  a  strange  and  terrible  feeling  of  fear  mingled 
with  an  intense  desire  to  give  herself  up  to  the  power  in  this 
man.  Was  Craven  outside?  Something  in  her  hoped,  almost 
prayed,  that  he  might  be.  It  was  surely  the  part  of  her  that 
was  afraid. 

"Good-bye,  Dick!"  she  said  in  an  ofiFhand  voice. 

"Good-bye !"  he  said.     "Take  good  care  of  her,  Arabian." 

She  sent  him  a  look  full  of  intense  and  hostile  inquiry.  He 
met"  it  with  a  half -amused  smile. 

"I  shall  do  better  now,"  he  said. 

"Ah?"  said  Arabian,  looking  polite  and  imperturbable. 

"Come  along!"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn.  "It  must  be  getting 
late." 

As  she  spoke  a  clock  in  the  room  began  striking  five.  For  a 
moment  she  felt  confused  and  almost  ill.  Her  brain  seemed 
too  full  of  rushing  thoughts  for  its  holding  capacity.  Her 
head  throbbed.    Her  legs  felt  weak. 

"Anything  the  matter?"  asked  Garstin,  gazing  at  her  with 
keen  attention  and  curiosity. 

"No,"  she  said  coldly.    "Good-bye." 

And  she  went  down  the  stairs  followed  by  Arabian. 

Garstin  did  not  accompany  them.  He  had  gone  to  stand 
before  his  picture  of  Arabian. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  opened  the  door.  A  soft  gust  of  wind  blew 
some  small  rain  into  her  face. 

"Let  me  hold  my  umbrella  over  you,  please,"  said  Arabian. 
"Do  take  my  arm  while  we  look  for  a  taxi." 

"No,  no!" 

She  walked  on. 

"There  is  nothing  the  matter,  I  hope  ?" 

"I  had  some  bad  news  through  the  telephone." 


868  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

She  felt  impelled  to  say  this  to  him,  though  she  had  said 
nothing  to  Garstin.  Her  brain  still  felt  horribly  overcharged, 
and  an  impulse  had  come  to  her  to  seek  instant  relief. 

"My  father  is  dead,"  she  added. 

As  she  spoke  she  looked  up  at  him,  and  she  saw  a  sharp 
quiver  distort  his  lips  for  an  instant. 

"Did  you  know  him?"  she  exclaimed,  standing  still. 

"I  ?    Indeed  no !    Why  should  you  suppose  so  ?" 

"I  thought I  don't  know !" 

He  was  now  looking  so  calm,  so  earnestly  sympathetic,  that 
she  almost  believed  that  her  eyes  had  played  her  a  trick  and 
that  his  face  had  not  changed  at  her  news. 

"I'm  not  normal  to-day,"  she  thought. 

"I  am  deeply  grieved,  deeply.  Please  accept  from  me  my 
most  full  sympathy." 

"Thank  you.  I  scarcely  ever  saw  my  father,  but  naturally 
this  news  has  upset  me.     He  died  in  the  Bahamas." 

"How  very  sad !     So  far  away !" 

"Yes." 

They  were  still  standing  together,  and  he  was  holding  his 
umbrella  over  her  head  and  gazing  down  at  her  earnestly, 
when  Craven  turned  the  corner  of  the  road  and  came  up  to 
them.  Miss  Van  Tuyn  flushed.  Although  she  had  asked 
Craven  to  come,  she  felt  startled  when  she  saw  him,  and  her 
confusion  of  mind  increased.  She  did  not  feel  competent  to 
deal  with  the  situation  which  she  had  deliberately  brought  about. 
Craven  had  come  upon  them  too  suddenly.  She  had  somehow 
not  expected  him  just  at  that  moment,  when  she  and  Arabian 
were  standing  still.  Before  she  was  able  to  recover  her  nor- 
mal self-possession,  Craven  had  taken  off  his  hat  to  her  and 
gone  rapidly  past  them.  She  had  just  time  to  see  the  grim  line 
of  his  lips  and  the  hard,  searching  glance  he  sent  to  her  com- 
panion. Arabian,  she  noticed,  looked  after  him,  and  she  saw 
that,  while  he  looked,  his  large  eyes  lost  all  their  melting  gen- 
tleness. They  had  a  cruel,  almost  menacing  expression  in  them, 
and  they  were  horribly  intelligent  at  that  moment. 

"What  does  this  man  not  know?"  she  thought. 

He  might  have  little,  or  no,  ordinary  learning,  but  she  was 
positive  that  he  had  an  almost  appallingly  intimate  knowledge 
of  many  chapters  in  the  dark  books  of  life. 


CHAPTER  VI  DECEMBER  LOVE  359 

"Shall  we ?"  said  Arabian. 

And  they  walked  on  slowly  together. 

"May  I  make  a  suggestion,  Miss  Van  Tuyn,"  he  said  gently. 

"What  is  it?" 

"My  little  flat  is  close  by,  in  Rose  Tree  Gardens.  It  is  not 
quite  arranged,  but  tea  will  be  ready.  Let  me  please  offer  you 
a  cup  of  tea  and  a  cigarette.    There  is  a  taxi !" 

He  made  a  signal  with  his  left  hand. 

"We  will  keep  it  at  the  door,  so  that  you  may  at  once  leave 
when  you  feel  refreshed.  You  have  had  this  bad  shock.  You 
need  a  moment  to  recover." 

The  cab  stopped  beside  them. 

"No,  I  must  really  go  home,"  she  said,  with  an  attempt  at 
determination. 

"Of  course!  But  please  let  me  have  the  privilege.  You 
have  told  me  first  of  all  of  your  grief.  That  is  real  friend- 
ship. Let  me  then  be  also  friendly,  and  help  you  to  recover 
yourself." 

"But  really  I  must " 

"Four,  Rose  Tree  Gardens!    You  know  them?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Good !" 

The  taxi  glided  away  from  the  kerb. 

And  Miss  Van  Tuyn  made  no  further  protest.  She  had  a 
strange  feeling  just  then  that  her  will  had  abandoned  her. 
Fanny  Cronin's  message  must  have  had  an  imperious  effect 
upon  her.  Yet  she  still  felt  no  real  sorrow  at  her  father's 
death.  She  seemed  to  be  enveloped  in  something  which  made 
mental  activity  difficult,  indeed  almost  impossible. 

When  the  cab  stopped,  she  said : 

"I  can  only  stay  five  minutes." 

"Certainly !  Dear  Mademoiselle  Cronin  will  expect  •you. 
Please  wait  for  the  lady !" 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  was  vaguely  glad  to  hear  him  say  that  to 
the  chauffeur. 

She  got  out  and  looked  upwards.  She  saw  a  big  block  of 
flats  towering  up  in  front  of  her. 

"On  the  other  side  they  face  the  river  Thames,"  said  .Ara- 
bian. "All  my  windows  except  three  look  out  that  way.  We 
will  go  up  in  the  elevator." 


860  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

They  passed  through  a  handsome  hall  and  stepped  into  the 
lift,  which  carried  them  up  to  the  fourth  floor  of  the  building. 
Arabian  put  a  latch-key  into  a  polished  mahogany  door  with  a 
big  letter  M  in  brass  nailed  to  it. 

"Please !"  he  said,  standing  back  for  Miss  Van  Tuyn  to 
pass  in. 

But  she  hesitated.  She  saw  a  pretty  little  hall,  a  bunch  of 
roses  in  a  vase  on  a  Chippendale  table,  two  or  three  closed 
doors.  She  was  aware  of  a  very  faint  and  pleasant  odour, 
like  the  odour  of  flowers  not  roses,  and  guessed  that  someone 
had  been  burning  some  perfume  in  the  flat.  There  was  cer- 
tainly nothing  repellent  in  this  temporary  home  of  Arabian. 
Yet  she  felt  with  a  painful  strength  that  she  had  better  go 
away  without  entering  it.  While  she  paused,  but  before  she 
had  said  anything,  she  heard  a  quiet  step,  and  a  thin  man  of 
about  thirty  with  a  very  dark  narrow  face  and  light,  grey 
eyes  appeared, 

"Please  bring  tea  for  two  at  once,"  said  Arabian  in  Spanish. 

"Yes,  sir,  in  a  moment,"  said  the  man,  also  in  Spanish. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  stepped  in,  and  the  door  was  gently  shut 
behind  her  by  Arabian's  manservant. 

Arabian  opened  the  second  door  on  the  left  of  the  hall. 

"This  is  my  little  salon,"  he  said.    "May  I " 

"No,  thank  you.  I'll  keep  on  my  coat.  I  must  go  home  in 
a  minute.  I  shall  have  a  good  deal  to  do.  Really  I  oughtn't 
to  be  here  at  all.    If  anyone — after  such  news " 

She  looked  at  Arabian.  She  had  just  had  news  of  the  death 
of  her  father,  and  she  had  come  out  to  tea  with  this  man. 
Was  she  crazy? 

"I  don't  know  why  I  came !"  she  said  bluntly,  angrily  almost. 

"Do  please  sit  down,"  he  said,  pushing  forward  a  large  arm- 
chair. "If  these  curtains  were  not  drawn  we  could  see  the 
river  Thames  from  here.     It  is  a  fine  view." 

He  bent  down  and  poked  the  fire,  then  stood  beside  it,  look- 
ing down  at  her  as  she  sat  in  the  chair. 

She  glanced  round  the  room.  It  was  well  furnished  and  con- 
tained two  or  three  good  pieces,  but  there  was  nothing  in 
it  which  showed  personality,  a  thoughtful  guiding  mind  and 
taste;  there  was  nothing  in  it  even  which  marked  it  definitely 
as  the  home  of  a  woman  rather  than  a  man,  or  vice  versa. 


CHAPTER  VI  DECEMBER  LOVE  361 

"I  rent  it  furnished,"  said  Arabian,  evidently  guessing  her 
thought. 

"Are  you  here  for  long?" 

"I  do  not  quite  know.    That  depends." 

His  large  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  as  he  said  this,  and  she 
longed  to  ask  him  what  intentions  he  had  with  regard  to  her. 
He  had  never  made  love  to  her.  He  had  never  even  been  what 
is  sometimes  called  "foolish"  with  her.  Not  a  word  to  which 
she  could  object  had  ever  come  from  his  lips.  By  no  action 
had  he  ever  claimed  anything  from  her.  And  yet  she  felt 
that  in  some  way  he  was  governing  her,  was  imposing  his 
will  on  her.  Certainly  he  had  once  followed  her  in  the  street. 
But  on  that  occasion  he  had  not  known  who  she  was.  Now,  as 
he  gazed  at  her,  she  felt  certain  that  he  had  formed  some  defi- 
nite project  with  regard  to  her,  and  meant  to  carry  it  out  at 
whatever  cost.  Garstin  said  he,  Arabian,  was  in  love  with  her. 
Probably  he  was.  But  if  he  was  in  love  with  her,  why  did  he 
never  hint  at  it  when  they  were  alone  together  except  by  the 
expression  in  his  eyes?  She  asked  herself  why  she  was  afraid 
of  him,  and  the  answer  she  seemed  to  get  was  that  his  reti- 
cence frightened  her.  There  was  something  in  his  continued 
inaction  which  alarmed  her.  It  was  a  silence  of  conduct  which 
lay  like  a  weight  upon  her.    She  felt  it  now  as  he  stared  at  her. 

"What  do  you  want  with  me  ?" 

That  was  what  she  longed,  and  yet  was  afraid,  to  say  to  him. 
Did  he  know  how  violently  she  was  attracted  by  him  and  how 
fiercely  he  sometimes  repelled  her?  No  doubt  he  did.  No 
doubt  he  knew  that  at  times  she  believed  him  to  be  horrible, 
suspected  him  of  nameless  things,  of  abominable  relation- 
ships; no  doubt  he  knew  that  she  was  degradingly  jealous  of 
him.  When  his  eyes  were  thus  fixed  upon  her  she  felt  that 
he  knew  everything  that  was  going  on  in  her  with  which  he 
had  to  do.    Yet  he  never  spoke  of  his  knowledge. 

His  reserve  almost  terrified  her.    That  was  the  truth. 

The  dark  man  with  the  light  eyes  brought  in  tea  on  a  large 
silver  tray.    She  began  to  drink  it  hastily. 

"You — forgive  me  for  asking — you  will  not  leave  London 
because  of  this  sad  news?"  said  Arabian. 

"Do  you  mean  for  America  ?" 

"Yes." 


362  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  had  not  thought  of  such  a  possibility  till  he 
alluded  to  it.  She  could  not,  of  course,  be  at  her  father's  fu- 
neral. That  was  impossible.  But  suddenly  it  occurred  to  her 
that  she  had  no  doubt  come  into  a  very  large  fortune.  There 
might  be  business  to  do.  She  might  have  to  cross  the  Atlantic. 
At  the  thought  of  this  possibility  her  sense  of  confusion  and 
almost  of  mental  blankness  increased,  and  yet  she  realized  more 
vividly  than  before  the  death  of  her  father. 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  think  so.  No,  thank  you.  I  won't 
smoke.  I  must  go.  I  ought  never  to  have  come  after  receiving 
such  news," 

She  stood  up.  He  took  her  hand.  His  was  warm  and  strong, 
and  a  great  deal  of  his  personality  seemed  to  her  to  be  in  its 
clasp — too  much  indeed.  His  body  fascinated  hers,  made  her 
realize  in  a  startling  way  that  the  coldness  of  which  some  men 
had  complained  had  either  been  overcome  by  something  tliat 
could  burn  and  be  consumed,  or  perhaps  had  never  existed. 

"You  will  not  go  to  America  without  telling  me?"  he  said. 

"No,  no.    Of  course  not." 

"You  told  me  first  of  your  sorrow !" 

"Why — why  did  I  ?"  she  thought,  wondering. 

"And  did  you  not  tell  Dick  Garstin." 

"No." 

"And  you  came  here  to  me." 

"No,  no !    With  you !" 

"To  my  rooms  in  spite  of  your  grief.  We  are  friends  from 
to-night." 

"To-night  .  ,  .  but  it  is  afternoon!" 

He  still  had  her  hand  in  his.  She  felt,  or  fancied  she  felt, 
a  pulse  beating  in  his  hand.  It  gave  her  a  sense  of  terrible 
intimacy  with  him,  as  if  she  were  close  to  the  very  sources  of 
his  being.     And  yet  she  knew  nothing  about  him. 

"It  gets  dark  so  early  now,"  he  said. 

Dark !  As  he  said  it  she  thought,  "That's  his  word  !  That's 
his  word !"    Everyone  has  his  word,  and  dark  was  Arabian's. 

"Good-bye!"  she  said. 

"I  will  take  you  down." 

Quietly,  and  very  naturally,  he  let  her  hand  go.  And  at  once 
she  had  a  sensation  of  being  out  in  the  cold. 

They  went  down  together  in  the  lift.     Just  as  they  left  it. 


CHAPTER  VI  DECEMBER  LOVE  363 

and  were  in  the  hall,  a  woman  whom  Miss  Van  Tuyn  knew 
slightly,  a  Mrs.  Birchington,  an  intimate  of  the  Ackroyde  and 
Lady  Wrackley  set,  met  them  coming  from  the  entrance. 

"Oh,  Miss  Van  Tuyn!"  she  said,  stopping. 

She  held  out  her  hand,  looking  from  Miss  Van  Tuyn  to 
Arabian. 

"How  are  you?" 

Her  light  eyes  were  searching  and  inquisitive.  She  had  an 
evening  paper  in  her  hand. 

"I — I  am  so  grieved,"  she  added,  again  looking  at  Arabian. 

"Mr.  Arabian — Mrs.  Birchington!"  Miss  Van  Tuyn  felt 
obliged  to  say. 

Mrs.  Birchington  and  Arabian  bowed. 

"Grieved !"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn. 

"Yes.  I  have  just  seen  the  sad  news  about  your  father  in 
the  paper." 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  realized  at  once  that  she  was  caught,  unless 
she  lied.  But  she  did  not  choose  to  lie  before  Arabian.  Some- 
thing— her  pride  of  a  free  American  girl,  perhaps — forbade 
that.    And  she  only  said : 

"Thank  you  for  your  kind  sympathy.    Good-bye." 

"Good-bye!" 

Mrs.  Birchington  bowed  again  to  Arabian,  swept  him  with 
her  sharp  inquisitive  eyes,  and  stepped  into  the  lift. 

"She  lives  here,"  he  said.  "In  the  apartment  opposite  to 
mine." 

As  Miss  Van  Tuyn  drove  away  towards  Claridge's  she  won- 
dered whether  Arabian  was  glad  because  of  that  fortuitous 
meeting. 

Because  of  it  her  close  intimacy  with  him — it  would  certainly 
now  be  called,  and  thought  of,  as  that — would  very  soon  be 
public  property.  All  those  women  would  hear  about  it.  How 
crazy  she  had  been  to  visit  Arabian's  flat  at  such  a  moment! 
She  was  angry  with  herself,  and  yet  she  believed  that  in  like 
circumstances  she  would  do  the  same  thing  again.  Her  power 
of  will  had  deserted  her,  or  this  man,  Arabian,  had  the  power 
to  inhibit  her  will.  And  Craven?  What  could  he  be  thinking 
about  her  ?  She  knew  he  was  a  sensitive  man.  What  must  he 
be  thinking?  That  she  had  asked  him  to  come  all  the  way  to 
Glebe  Place  merely  in  order  that  he  might  see  her  in  deep  con- 


364  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  five 

versation  with  another  man.  And  she  had  not  even  spoken 
to  him.  He  would  be  furious.  She  remembered  his  face.  He 
was  furious.  By  what  she  had  done  she  had  certainly  alienated 
Craven. 

And  her  father  was  dead! 

She  leaned  back  in  the  darkness  of  the  cab,  feeling  weak 
and  miserable,  almost  terrified.  Surely  Fate  had  her  in  a  tight 
grip.  She  remembered  Arabian's  question:  would  it  be  neces- 
sary for  her  to  go  to  America?  Her  father  was  very  rich. 
She  was  his  only  child.  He  must  certainly  have  left  her  a 
great  deal  of  his  money,  for  his  second  wife  was  wealthy  and 
would  not  need  it.  There  might  be  business  to  do  which  would 
necessitate  her  presence  in  New  York.  At  that  moment  she 
almost  wished  for  an  urgent  summons  from  the  New  World. 
A  few  hours  in  a  train,  the  crossing  of  a  gang-plank,  the  hoot 
of  a  siren,  and  she  would  be  free  from  all  these  complications ! 
The  sea  would  lie  between  her  and  Arabian — Adela  Selling- 
worth — Craven.  She  could  stay  away  for  months.  She  need 
not  come  back  at  all. 

But  this  man,  Arabian,  would  he  let  her  go  without  a  word, 
without  doing  something?  Would  his  strange  and  horrible 
reserve  last  till  her  ship  was  at  sea?  She  could  not  believe 
it.  If  she  made  up  her  mind  to  sail,  and  he  knew  it,  he  would 
speak,  act.  Something  would  happen.  There  would  be  some 
revelation  of  character,  of  intention.  She  was  sure  of  it.  Ara- 
bian was  a  man  who  could  wait — but  not  for  ever. 

She  still  seemed  to  feel  the  pulse  beating  in  his  warm  han<J 
as  she  drove  through  the  rain  and  the  darkness. 


PART  SIX 


CHAPTER  I 

MRS.  ACKROYDE  had  a  pretty  little  house  in  Upper  Gros- 
venor  Street,  but  she  spent  a  good  deal  of  her  time  in 
a  country  house  which  she  had  bought  at  Coombe  close  to 
London.  She  was  always  there  from  Saturday  to  Monday, 
when  she  was  not  paying  visits  or  abroad,  and  Coombe  Hall, 
as  her  place  was  called,  was  a  rallying  ground  for  members 
of  the  "old  guard."  Invariably  guests  came  down  to  stay  on 
the  Saturday,  and  others  motored  down  on  the  Sunday  to  lunch 
and  tea.  Bridge  was  the  great  attraction  for  some.  For  others 
there  were  lawn  tennis  and  golf.  And  often  there  was  good 
music.  For  Mrs.  Ackroyde  was  an  excellent  musician  as  well 
as  an  ardent  card-player. 

Lady  Sellingworth  had  occasionally  been  to  Coombe  Hall, 
but  for  several  years  now  she  had  ceased  from  going  there. 
She  did  not  care  to  show  her  white  hair  and  lined  face  in  Mrs. 
Ackroyde's  rooms,  which  were  always  thronged  with  women 
she  knew  too  well  and  with  men  who  had  ceased  from  admir- 
ing her.  And  she  was  no  longer  deeply  interested  in  the 
gossip  of  a  world  in  which  formerly  she  had  been  one  of  the 
ruling  spirits.  She  was,  therefore,  rather  surprised  at  receiv- 
ing a  note  from  Mrs.  Ackroyde  soon  after  her  return  from 
Geneva  urging  her  to  motor  to  Coombe  on  the  following  Sun- 
day for  lunch. 

"I  suppose  there  will  be  the  usual  crowd,"  Mrs.  Ackroyde 
wrote.  "And  I've  asked  Alick  Craven  and  two  or  three  who 
don't  often  come.  What  do  you  think  of  Beryl  Van  Tuyn's 
transformation  into  an  heiress?  I  hear  she's  come  into  over 
three  million  dollars.  I  suppose  she'll  be  more  unconventional 
than  ever  now.  Minnie  Birchington  met  her  just  after  her 
father's  death,  in  fact  the  very  day  his  death  was  announced 

365 


366  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

in  the  papers.  She'd  just  been  to  tea  with  a  marvellously  good- 
looking  man  called  something  Arabian,  who  has  taken  a  flat  in 
Rose  Tree  Gardens  opposite  to  Minnie's.  Evidently  this  is 
the  newest  way  of  going  into  deep  mourning." 

Lady  Sellingworth  hesitated  for  some  time  before  answering 
this  note.  Probably,  indeed  almost  certainly,  she  would  have 
refused  the  invitation  but  for  the  last  three  sentences  about 
Beryl  Van  Tuyn.  She  had  not  seen  Beryl  since  the  death 
of  Mr.  Van  Tuyn.  She  did  not  want  to  see  the  girl  again, 
for  she  could  not  help  hating  her.  She  had,  of  course,  sent 
a  note  of  sympathy  to  Claridge's,  and  had  received  an  affec- 
tionate reply,  which  she  had  torn  up  and  burnt  after  reading 
it.  But  she  had  not  gone  to  tell  her  regret  at  this  death  to 
Beryl,  and  Beryl  had  expressed  no  wish  to  see  her. 

In  her  heart  Lady  Sellingworth  hated  humbug,  and  she 
knew,  of  course,  that  any  pretence  of  real  friendship  between 
Beryl  and  her  would  be  humbug  in  an  acute  form.  She  might 
in  the  future  sometimes  have  to  pretend,  but  she  was  resolved 
not  to  rush  upon  insincerity.  If  Beryl  sought  her  out  again 
she  would  play  her  part  of  friend  gallantly  to  conceal  her 
wounds.    But  she  would  certainly  not  seek  out  Beryl. 

She  had  not  seen  Craven  since  her  return  to  London.  In 
spite  of  her  anger  against  him,  which  was  complicated  by  a 
feeling  of  almost  contemptuous  disgust,  she  longed  to  see  him 
again.  Each  day,  when  she  had  sat  in  her  drawing-room  in 
the  late  afternoon  and  had  heard  Murgatroyd's  heavy  step  out- 
side and  the  opening  of  the  door,  her  heart  had  beat  fast,  and 
she  had  thought,  "Can  it  be  he?"  Each  day,  after  the  words 
"Sir  Seymour  Portman !"  her  heart  had  sunk  and  she  had  felt 
bitter  and  weary. 

And  now  came  this  invitation,  putting  it  in  her  power  to 
meet  Craven  again  naturally.    Should  she  go? 

She  read  Dindie  Ackroyde's  note  once  more  carefully,  and  a 
strange  feeling  stung  her.  She  had  been  angry  with  Beryl 
for  being  fond  of  Craven.  (For  she  had  supposed  a  real 
fondness  in  Beryl.)  Now  she  was  angry  with  Beryl  for  a 
totally  different  reason.  It  was  evident  to  her  that  Beryl  was 
behaving  badly  to  Craven,  As  she  looked  at  the  note  in  her 
hand  she  remembered  a  conversation  in  a  box  at  the  theatre. 
Arabian!     That  was  the  name  of  the  man  Dick  Garstin  was 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  367 

painting,  or  had  been  painting.  Dindie  Ackroyde  called  him 
"Something  Arabian."  Lady  Sellingworth's  mind  supplied  the 
other  name.  It  was  Nicolas.  Beryl  had  described  him  as  "a 
living  bronze." 

She  had  gone  out  to  tea  with  him  in  a  flat  on  the  day  her 
father's  sudden  death  had  been  announced  in  the  papers.  And 
yet  she  had  pretended  that  she  was  hovering  on  the  verge  of 
love  for  Alick  Craven.  She  had  even  implied  that  she  was 
thinking  of  marrying  him.  Lady  Sellingworth  saw  Beryl  as  a 
treacherous  lover,  as  well  as  an  unkind  friend  and  a  heartless 
daughter,  and  suddenly  her  anger  against  Craven  died  in  pity. 
She  had  believed  for  a  little  while  that  she  hated  him,  but  now 
she  longed  to  protect  him  from  pain,  to  comfort  him,  to  make 
him  happy,  as  surely  she  had  once  made  him  happy,  if  only 
for  an  hour  or  two.  She  forgot  her  pride  and  her  sense  of 
injury  in  a  sudden  rush  of  feeling  that  was  new  to  her,  that, 
perhaps,  really  had  something  of  motherliness  in  it.  And  she 
sat  down  quickly  and  wrote  an  acceptance  to  Mrs.  Ackroyde. 

When  Sunday  came  she  felt  excited  and  eager,  absurdly  so 
for  a  woman  of  sixty.  But  her  secret  diffidence  troubled  her. 
She  looked  into  her  mirror  and  thought  of  the  piercing  eyes 
of  the  "old  guard,"  of  those  merciless  and  horribly  intelligent 
women  who  had  marked  with  amazement  her  sudden  collapse 
into  old  age  ten  years  ago,  who  would  mark  with  a  perhaps 
even  greater  amazement  this  bizarre  attempt  at  a  partial  return 
towards  what  she  had  once  been. 

And  what  would  Alick  Craven  think? 

Nevertheless  she  put  a  little  more  red  on  her  lips,  called  her 
maid,  had  something  done  to  her  hair. 

"It  has  been  a  great  success !"  said  the  little  Frenchwoman. 
"Miladi  looks  wonderful  to-day.  Black  and  white  is  much 
better  than  unrelieved  black  for  miladi.  And  the  soupgon  of 
blue  on  the  hat  and  in  the  earrings  of  miladi  lights  up  the 
whole  personality.  Miladi  never  did  a  wiser  thing  than  when 
she  visited  Switzerland." 

"You  think  not,  Cecile?" 

"Indeed  yes,  miladi.  There  is  no  specialist  even  in  Paris  like 
Monsieur  Paulus.  And  as  to  the  Docteur  Lavallois,  he  is  a 
marvel.  Every  woman  who  is  no  longer  a  girl  should  go  to 
him." 


368  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

Lady  SelHngworth  picked  up  a  big  muff  and  went  down  to 
the  motor,  leaving  Cecile  smiling  behind  her.  As  she  disap- 
peared down  the  stairs  Cecile,  who  was  on  the  bright  side  of 
thirty,  with  a  smooth,  clear  skin  and  chestnut-coloured  hair, 
pushed  out  her  under-lip  slowly  and  shook  her  head. 

"La  vieillesse!"  she  murmured.  "La  vieillesse  amour euse ! 
Quelle  horreur!" 

Lady  Sellingworth  had  never  given  the  maid  any  confidence 
about  her  secret  reasons  for  doing  this  or  that.  But  Cecile  was 
a  Parisian.  She  fully  understood  the  reason  for  their  visit  to 
Geneva.     Miladi  had  fallen  in  love. 

Lady  Sellingworth's  excitement  increased  as  she  drove 
towards  Coombe.  It  was  complicated  by  a  feeling  of  shyness. 
To  herself  she  said  that  she  was  like  an  old  debutante.  She 
had  been  out  of  the  world  for  so  long,  and  now  she  was  ven- 
turing once  more  among  the  merciless  women  of  the  world  that 
never  rests  from  amusing  itself,  from  watching  the  lives  of 
others,  from  gossiping  about  them,  from  laughing  at  them.  She 
had  been  a  leader  of  this  world  until  she  had  denied  it,  had 
shut  herself  away  from  it.  And  now  she  was  venturing  back — 
because  of  a  man.  As  she  drove  on  swiftly  through  the  wintry 
and  dull-looking  streets,  streets  that  seemed  to  grow  meaner, 
more  dingy,  more  joyless,  as  she  drew  near  to  the  outskirts 
of  London,  she  looked  back  over  the  past.  And  she  saw  always 
the  same  reason  for  the  important  actions  of  her  life.  All  of 
them  had  been  committed  because  of  a  man.  And  now,  even 
at  sixty 

Presently  she  saw  by  the  look  of  the  landscape  that  she  was 
nearing  Coombe,  and  she  drew  a  little  mirror  out  of  her  muff 
and  gazed  into  it  anxiously. 

"What  will  they  say  ?  What  will  he  think  ?  What  will  hap- 
pen to  me  to-day?" 

The  car  turned  into  a  big  gravel  sweep  between  tall,  red- 
brick walls,  and  drew  up  before  Mrs.  Ackroyde's  door. 

In  the  Igng  drawing-room,  with  its  four  windows  opening  on 
to  a  terrace,  from  which  Coombe  Woods  could  be  seen  sunk 
in  the  misty  winter.  Lady  Sellingworth  found  many  cheerful 
people  whom  she  knew.  Mrs.  Ackroyde  gave  her  blunt,  but 
kindly,  greeting,  with  her  strange  eyes,  fierce  and  remote,  yet 
notably  honest,  taking  in  at  a  glance  the  results  of  Geneva. 


CHAPTKR  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  369 

Lady  Wrackley  was  there  in  an  astonishing  black  hat  trimmed 
with  bird  of  paradise  plumes.  Glancing  about  her  while  she 
still  spoke  to  Dindie  Ackroyde  carelessly,  Lady  Sellingworth 
saw  young  Leving;  Sir  Robert  Syng;  the  Duchess  of  Welling- 
borough, shaking  her  broad  shoulders  and  tossing  up  her  big 
chin  as  she  laughed  at  some  joke;  Jennie  Farringdon,  with  her 
puffy  pale  cheeks  and  parrot-like  nose,  talking  to  old  Hubert 
Mostine,  the  man  of  innumerable  weddings,  funerals  and 
charity  fetes,  with  his  blinking  eyelids  and  moustaches  that 
drooped  over  a  large  and  gossiping  mouth ;  Magdalen  Bearing, 
whose  Mona  Lisa  smile  had  attracted  three  generations  of 
men,  and  who  had  managed  to  look  sad  and  be  riotous  for  at 
least  four  decades;  Francis  Braybrooke,  pulling  at  his  beard; 
Mrs.  Birchington ;  Lady  Anne  Smith,  wiry,  cock-nosed,  brown, 
ugly,  but  supremely  smart  and  self-assured ;  Eve  Colton,  painted 
like  a  wall,  and  leaning,  with  an  old  hand  blazing  with  jewels, 
on  a  stick  with  a  jade  handle;  Mrs.  Dews,  the  witty  actress, 
with  her  white,  mobile  face,  and  the  large,  irresponsible  eyes 
which  laughed  at  herself,  the  critics  and  the  world;  Lord 
Alfred  Craydon,  thin,  high  church  and  political,  who  loved 
pretty  women  but  receded  farther  and  farther  from  marriage 
as  the  years  spun  by ;  and  Lady  Twickenham,  a  French  poupee; 
and  Julian  Lamberhurst,  the  composer,  who  looked  as  if  he  had 
grown  up  to  his  six  foot  four  in  one  night,  like  the  mustard 
seed ;  and  Hilary  Lane,  the  friend  of  poets ;  and — how  many 
more !  For  Dindie  Ackroyde  loved  to  gather  a  crowd  for  lunch, 
and  had  a  sort  of  physical  love  of  noise  and  human  com- 
plications. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  room  there  was  a  section  which  was 
raised  a  few  inches  above  the  rest.  Here  stood  two  Steinway 
grand  pianos,  tail  to  tail,  their  dark  polished  cases  shining 
soberly  in  the  pale  light  of  November.  There  were  some  deep 
settees  on  this  species  of  dais,  and,  looking  towards  it,  over  the 
heads  of  the  crowd  in  the  lower  part  of  the  room,  Lady  Selling- 
worth  saw  Craven  again. 

He  was  sitting  beside  a  pretty  girl,  whom  Lady  Sellingworth 
did  not  know,  and  talking.  His  face  looked  hard  and  bored, 
but  he  was  leaning  towards  the  girl  as  if  trying  to  seem 
engrossed,  intent,  on  the  conversation  and  on  her. 

Francis  Braybrooke  came  up.    Lady  Sellingworth  was  busy. 


870  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

greeting  and  being  greeted.  Once  more  she  made  part  of  the 
regiment.  But  the  ranks  were  broken.  There  was  no  review 
order  here.  Only  for  an  instant  had  she  been  aware  of  for- 
mahty,  of  the  "eyes  right"  atmosphere — when  she  had  entered 
the  room.  Then  the  old  voices  hummed  about  her.  And  she 
saw  the  well-known  and  experienced  eyes  examining  her.  And 
she  had  to  listen  and  to  answer,  to  be  charming,  to  "hold  her 
own." 

"I'm  putting  Arick  Craven  next  to  you  at  lunch,  Adela.  I 
know  you  and  he  are  pals.     He's  over  there  with  Lily  Bright. 

"And  who  is  Lily  Bright?"  said  Lady  Sellingworth  in  her 
most  offhand  way. 

"A  dear  little  New  Englander,  Knickerbocker  to  the  bone." 

She  turned  away  composedly  to  meet  another  guest. 

Francis  Braybrooke  began  to  talk  to  Lady  Sellingworth, 
and  almost  immediately  Lady  Wrackley  and  Mrs.  Birchington 
joined  them. 

"How  marvellous  you  look,  Adela!"  said  Lady  Wrackley, 
staring  with  her  birdlike  eyes.  "You  will  cut  us  all  out.  I 
must  go  to  Geneva.  Have  you  heard  about  Beryl?  But  of 
course  you  have.  She  was  so  delighted  at  coming  into  a  for- 
tune that  she  rushed  away  to  Rose  Tree  Gardens  to  celebrate 
the  event  with  a  man  without  even  waiting  till  she  had  got 
her  mourning.     Didn't  she,  Minnie?" 

Francis  Braybrooke  was  looking  shocked. 

"I  cannot  believe  that  Miss  Van  Tuyn "  he  began. 

But  Mrs.  Birchington  interrupted  him. 

"But  I  was  there !"  she  said. 

"I  beg  your  pardon!"  said  Braybrooke. 

"It  was  the  very  day  the  death  of  her  father  was  in  the 
evening  papers.  I  came  back  from  the  club  with  the  paper 
in  my  hand,  and  met  Beryl  Van  Tuyn  getting  out  of  the 
lift  in  Rose  Tree  Gardens  with  the  man  who  lives  opposite 
to  me.    She  absolutely  looked  embarrassed." 

"Impossible!"  said  Lady  Wrackley.     "She  couldn't!" 

"I  assure  you  she  did !    But  she  introduced  me  to  him." 

"She  cannot  have  heard  of  her  father's  death,"  said  Bray- 
brooke. 

"But  she  had!  For  I  expressed  my  sympathy  and  she 
thanked  me." 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  371 

Braybrooke  looked  very  ill  at  ease  and  glanced  plaintively 
towards  the  place  where  Craven  was  sitting  with  the  pretty 
American. 

"No  doubt  she  had  been  to  visit  old  friends,"  he  said,  "Ameri- 
can friends." 

"But  this  man,  Nicolas  Arabian,  lives  alone  in  his  flat.  And 
I'm  sure  he's  not  an  American.  Lady  Archie  has  seen  him  sev- 
eral times  with  Beryl." 

"What's  he  like?"  asked  Lady  Wrackley. 

"Marvellously  handsome !  A  charmeur  if  ever  there  was  one. 
Beryl  certainly  has  good  taste,  but " 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  general  movement.  The  butler 
had  murmured  to  Mrs.  Ackroyde  that  lunch  was  ready. 

Lady  Sellingworth  was  among  the  first  few  women  who 
left  the  drawing-room,  and  was  sitting  at  a  round  table  in  the 
big,  stone-coloured  dining-room  when  Baron  de  Melville,  an 
habitue  at  Coombe,  bent  over  her. 

"I'm  lucky  enough  to  be  beside  you!"  he  said.  "This  is  a 
rare  occasion.    One  never  meets  you  now." 

He  sat  down  on  her  right.  The  place  on  her  left  was  vacant. 
People  were  still  coming  in,  talking,  laughing,  finding  their 
seats.  The  Duchess  of  Wellingborough,  who  was  exactly  oppo- 
site to  Lady  Sellingworth,  leaned  forward  to  speak  to  her. 

"Adela  .  .  .  Adela!" 

"Yes?    How  are  you  Cora?" 

"Very  well,  as  I  always  am.     Isn't  Lavallois  a  marvel?" 

"He  is  certainly  very  clever." 

"You  are  proof  of  it,  my  dear.  Have  you  heard  what  the 
Bolshevist  envoy  said  to  the  Prime  Minister  when " 

But  at  this  moment  someone  spoke  to  the  duchess,  who  was 
already  beginning  to  laugh  at  the  story  she  was  intending  to 
tell,  and  Lady  Sellingworth  was  aware  of  a  movement  on  her 
left.  She  felt  as  if  she  blushed,  though  no  colour  came  into 
her  face. 

"How  are  you.  Lady  Sellingworth?" 

She  had  not  turned  her  head,  but  now  she  did,  and  met 
Craven's  hard,  uncompromising  blue  eyes  and  deliberately  smil- 
ing lips. 

"Oh,  it's  you !    How  nice !" 

She  gave  him  her  hand.    He  just  touched  it  coldly.    What 


372  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

a  boy  he  still  was  in  his  polite  hostility !  She  thought  of  Cam- 
ber Sands  and  the  darkness  falling  over  the  waste,  and,  in 
spite  of  her  self-control  and  her  pity  for  him,  there  was  an 
unconquerable  feeling  of  injury  in  her  heart.  What  reason, 
what  right,  had  he  to  greet  her  so  frigidly?  How  had  she  in- 
jured him? 

A  roar  of  conversation  had  begun  in  the  room.  Everyone 
seemed  in  high  spirits.  Mrs.  Ackroyde,  who  was  at  the  same 
table  as  Lady  Sellingworth,  with  Lord  Alfred  Craydon  on  her 
right  and  Sir  Robert  Syng  on  her  left,  looked  steadily  round 
over  the  multitude  of  her  guests  with  a  comprehensive  glance, 
the  analyzing  and  summing-up  glance  of  one  to  whom  every- 
thing social  was  as  an  open  book  containing  no  secrets  which 
her  eyes  did  not  read.  Those  eyes  travelled  calmly,  and  pres- 
ently came  to  Craven  and  Adela  Sellingworth.  She  smiled 
faintly  and  spoke  to  Robert  Syng. 

"This  is  her  second  debut,"  she  said.  "I'm  bringing  her  out 
again.    They  are  all  amazed." 

"What  about?'  said  Sir  Robert,  in  his  grim  and  very  mas- 
culine voice. 

"Bobbie,  you  know  as  well  as  I  do.  I  had  a  bet  with  Anne 
that  she  would  accept.  I'm  five  pounds  to  the  good.  Adela 
is  a  creature  of  impulses,  and  that  sort  of  creature  does  young 
things  to  the  day  of  its  death." 

"Is  it  doing  a  young  thing  to  accept  a  luncheon  invitation 
from  you?" 

"Yes — for  her  reason," 

"Well,  that's  beyond  me." 

"How  indifferent  you  are!" 

He  looked  at  her  in  silence. 

Lady  Sellingworth  talked  to  the  baron  till  half-way  through 
lunch.  He  was  a  financier  of  rather  obscure  origin,  long  natu- 
ralized as  an  Englishman,  and  ardently  patriotic.  The  noble 
words  "we  British  people"  were  often  upon  his  strangely  for- 
eign-looking lips.  Many  years  ago  the  "old  guard"  had  taken 
him  to  their  generous  bosoms.  For  he  was  enormously  rich, 
and  really  not  a  bad  sort.  And  he  had  been  clever  enough 
to  remain  unmarried,  so  hope  attended  him  with  undeviating 
steps. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  was  presently  the  theme  of  his  discourse. 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  873 

Evidently  he  did  not  know  anything  about  her  and  Alick  Craven. 
For  he  discussed  her  and  her  change  of  fortune  without  em- 
barrassment or  any  arriere  pensee,  and  he,  too,  spoke  of  the 
visit  to  Rose  Tree  Gardens.  Evidently  all  the  Coombe  set  was 
full  of  this  mysterious  visit,  paid  to  an  Adonis  whom  nobody 
knew,  in  the  shadow  of  a  father's  death. 

The  baron  greatly  admired  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  not  only  foi 
her  beauty  but  for  her  daring.  And  he  was  not  at  all  shocked 
at  what  she  had  done. 

"She  never  lived  with  her  father.  Why  should  she  pre- 
tend to  be  upset  at  his  death?  The  only  difference  it  makes 
to  her  is  an  extremely  agreeable  one.  If  she  celebrates  it  by 
a  mild  revel  over  the  tea  cups  with  an  exceptionally  good- 
looking  man,  who  is  to  blame  her?  The  fact  is,  we  Britishers 
are  all  moral  humbugs.    It  seems  to  be  in  the  blood,"  etc. 

He  ran  on  with  wholly  un-English  vivacity  about  Beryl  and 
her  wonderful  man.  Everybody  wished  to  know  who  he  was 
and  all  about  him,  but  he  seemed  to  be  a  profound  mystery. 
Even  Minnie  Birchington,  who  lived  opposite  to  him,  knew 
little  more  than  the  rest  of  them.  Since  she  had  been  intro- 
duced to  him  she  had  never  set  eyes  on  him,  although  she 
knew  from  her  maid  that  he  was  still  in  the  flat  opposite,  which 
he  had  rented  furnished  for  three  months  with  an  option  for  a 
longer  period.  He  had  a  Spanish  manservant  in  the  flat  with 
him,  but  whether  he,  too,  was  Spanish  Mrs.  Birchington  did 
not  know.  Where  had  Beryl  Van  Tuyn  picked  him  up,  and 
how  had  she  come  to  know  him  so  well?  All  the  women 
were  asking  these  questions.  And  the  men  were  intrigued 
because  of  the  report,  carried  by  Lady  Archie,  and  enthusiasti- 
cally confirmed  by  Mrs.  Birchington,  of  the  fellow's  extraor- 
dinary good  looks. 

Lady  Sellingworth  listened  to  all  this  with  an  air  of  polite, 
but  rather  detached,  interest,  wondering  all  the  time  whether 
Craven  could  overhear  what  was  being  said.  Craven  was  some- 
times talking  to  his  neighbour,  Mrs.  Farringdon,  but  occa- 
sionally their  conversation  dropped,  and  Lady  Sellingworth 
was  aware  of  his  sitting  in  silence.  She  wished,  and  yet  almost 
feared,  to  talk  to  him,  but  she  knew  that  she  was  interested 
in  no  one  else  in  the  room.  Now  that  she  was  again  with 
Craven  she  realized  painfully  how  much  she  had  missed  him. 


374  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

Among  all  these  people,  many  of  them  talented,  clever,  even 
fascinating,  she  was  only  concerned  about  him.  To  her  he 
seemed  almost  like  a  vital  human  being  in  the  midst  of  a 
crowd  of  dummies  endowed  by  some  magic  with  the  power 
of  speech.  She  only  felt  him  at  this  moment,  though  she  was 
conscious  of  the  baron,  Mrs.  Ackroyde,  Bobbie  Syng,  the 
duchess,  and  others  who  were  near  her.  This  silent  boy — he 
was  still  a  boy  in  comparison  with  her — crumbling  his  bread, 
wiped  them  all  out.  Yet  he  was  no  cleverer  than  they  were,  no 
more  vital  than  they.    And  half  of  her  almost  hated  him  still. 

"Oh,  why  do  I  worry  about  him?"  she  thought,  while  she 
leaned  towards  the  baron  and  looked  energetically  into  his 
shifting  dark  eyes.  "What  is  there  in  him  that  holds  me  and 
tortures  me?  He's  only  an  ordinary  man — horribly  ordinary. 
I  know  that." 

And  she  thought  of  Camber  Sands  and  the  twilight,  and  saw 
Craven  seeking  for  Beryl's  hand — footman  and  housemaid. 
What  had  she,  Adela  Sellingworth,  with  her  knowledge  and  her 
past,  her  great  burden  of  passionate  experiences — what  had  she 
to  do  with  such  an  ordinary  young  man? 

"Nicolas  might  possibly  be  Greek  or  Russian.  But  what 
are  we  to  make  of  Arabian?" 

It  was  still  the  voice  of  the  Baron — full,  energetic,  intensely 
un-English. 

"Have  you  heard  the  name  before,  Lady  Sellingworth?" 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"Really!  What  country  does  it  belong  to?  Surely  not  to 
our  England?" 

"No." 

Craven  was  not  speaking  at  this  moment,  and  she  felt  that 
he  was  listening  to  them.  She  remembered  how  Beryl  had  hurt 
her  and,  speaking  with  deliberate  clearness,  she  added: 

"Garstin,  the  painter,  has  had  this  man,  Nicolas  Arabian, 
as  a  sitter  for  a  long  time,  certainly  for  a  good  many  weeks. 
And  Beryl  is  just  now  intensely  interested  in  portrait  painting." 

"What — he's  a  model!  But  with  a  flat  in  Rose  Tree 
Gardens !" 

"He  is  evidently  not  an  ordinary  model.  I  believe  Mr.  Gar- 
stin picked  him  up  somewhere,  saw  him  by  chance,  probably  at 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  375 

the  Cafe  Royal  or  some  place  of  that  kind,  and  asked  him 
to  sit." 

"Do  you  know  him?"  asked  the  Baron,  with  sharp  curiosity. 

"Oh,  no !    I  have  never  set  eyes  upon  him.    Beryl  told  me." 

"Miss  Van  Tuyn!  We  all  thought  she  was  trying  to  keep 
the  whole  matter  a  secret." 

"Well,  she  told  me  quite  openly.  You  were  there,  weren't 
you?" 

She  turned  rather  abruptly  to  Craven.    He  started. 

"What?  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  didn't  catch  what  you  were 
saying." 

"He's  lying !"  she  thought. 

The  Baron  was  addressed  by  his  neighbor,  Magdalen  Dear- 
ing,  whose  husband  he  was  supposed,  perhaps  quite  wrongly, 
to  finance,  and  Lady  Sellingworth  was  left  free  for  a  conver- 
sation with  Craven. 

"We  were  speaking  about  Beryl,"  she  began. 

Suddenly  she  felt  hard,  and  she  wanted  to  punish  Craven,  as 
we  only  wish  to  punish  those  who  can  make  us  suffer  because 
they  have  made  us  care  for  them. 

"It  seems  that — they  are  all  saying " 

She  paused.  She  wanted  to  repeat  the  scandalous  gossip 
about  Beryl's  visit  to  this  mystery  man,  Arabian,  immediately 
after  her  father's  death.  But  she  could  not  do  it.  No,  she 
could  not  punish  him  with  such  a  dirty  weapon.  He  was  worthy 
of  polished  steel,  and  this  would  be  rusty  scrap-iron, 

"It's  nothing  but  stupid  gossip,"  she  said.  "And  you  and 
I  have  never  dealt  in  that  together,  have  we?" 

"Oh,  I  enjoy  hearing  about  my  neighbours,"  he  answered, 
"or  I  shouldn't  come  here." 

She  felt  a  sharp  thrust  of  disappointment.  His  voice  was 
cold  and  full  of  detachment;  the  glance  of  his  blue  eyes  was 
hard  and  unrelenting.  She  had  never  seen  him  like  this  till 
to-day. 

"What  are  they  all  saying  about  Miss  Van  Tuyn?"  he  added. 
"Anything  amusing?" 

"No.  And  in  any  case  it's  not  the  moment  to  talk  nonsense 
about  her,  just  when  she  is  in  deep  mourning." 

With  an  almost  bitter  smile  she  continued,  after  a  slight 
hesitation : 


376  DECEMBER  LCVE  part  six 

"There  is  a  close  time  for  game  during  which  the  guns  must 
be  patient.  There  ought  to  be  a  close  time  for  human  beings 
in  sorrow.    We  ought  not  to  fire  at  them  all  the  year  round." 

"What  does  it  matter?  They  fire  at  us  all  the  year  round. 
The  carnage  is  mutual." 

"Have  you  turned  cynic?" 

"I  don't  think  I  was  ever  a  sentimentalist." 

"Perhaps  not.    But  must  one  be  either  the  one  or  the  other?" 

"I  am  quite  sure  you  are  not  the  latter." 

"I  should  be  sorry  to  be  the  former,"  she  said,  with  unusual 
earnestness. 

Something  in  his  voice  made  her  suddenly  feel  very  sad, 
with  a  coldness  of  sorrow  that  was  like  frost  binding  her  heart. 
She  looked  .across  the  big  table.  A  long  window  was  opposite 
to  her.  Through  it  she  saw  distant  tree-tops  rising  into  the 
misty  grey  sky.  And  she  thought  of  the  silence  of  the  bare 
woods,  so  near  and  yet  so  remote.  Why  was  life  so  heart- 
less? Why  could  not  he  and  she  understand  each  other? 
Why  had  she  nothing  to  rest  on?  Winter!  She  had  entered 
into  her  winter,  irrevocable,  cold  and  leafless.  But  the  long- 
ing for  warmth  would  not  leave  her.  Winter  was  terrible 
to  her,  would  always  be  terrible. 

How  the  Duchess  of  Wellingborough  was  laughing!  Her 
broad  shoulders  shook.  She  threw  up  her  chin  and  showed 
her  white  teeth.  To  her  life  was  surely  a  splendid  game,  even 
in  widowhood  and  old  age.  The  crowd  was  enough  for  her. 
She  fed  on  good  stories.  And  so  no  doubt  she  would  never 
go  hungry.  For  a  moment  Lady  Sellingworth  thought  that  she 
envied  the  Duchess.  But  then  something  deep  down  in  her 
knew  it  was  not  so.  To  need  much — that  is  greater  and  bet- 
ter, even  if  the  need  brings  that  sorrow  which  perhaps  many 
know  nothing  of.  At  that  moment  she  connected  desire  with 
aspiration,  and  felt  released  from  her  lowest  part. 

Craven  was  speaking  to  Mrs.  Farringdon ;  Lady  Sellingworth 
heard  her  saying,  in  her  curiously  muffled,  contralto  voice : 

"Old  Bean  is  a  wonderful  horse.  I  fancy  him  for  the  next 
Derby.  But  some  people  say  he  is  not  a  stayer.  On  a  hard 
course  he  might  crack  up.  Still,  he's  got  a  good  deal  of  bone. 
The  Farnham  stable  is  absolutely  rotten  at  present.  Don't 
go  near  it." 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  37T 

"Oh,  why  did  I  come?"  Lady  Sellingworth  thought,  as  she 
turned  again  to  the  Baron, 

She  had  lost  the  habit  of  the  world  in  her  long  seclusion. 
In  her  retreat  she  had  developed  into  a  sentimentalist.  Or 
perhaps  she  had  always  been  one,  and  old  age  had  made  the 
tendency  more  definite,  had  fixed  her  in  the  torturing  groove. 
She  began  to  feel  terribly  out  of  place  in  this  company,  but 
she  knew  that  she  did  not  look  out  of  place.  She  had  long 
ago  mastered  the  art  of  appearance,  and  could  never  forget 
that  cunning.  And  she  gossiped  gaily  with  the  Baron  until 
luncheon  at  last  was  over. 

As  she  went  towards  the  drawing-room  Mrs.  Ackroyde  joined 
her. 

"You  were  rather  unkind  to  Alick  Craven,  Adela,"  she  mur- 
mured.   "Has  he  offended  you?" 

"On  the  contrary.    I  think  he's  a  charming  boy." 

"Don't  punish  him  all  the  afternoon  then." 

"But  I  am  not  going  to  be  here  all  the  afternoon.  I  have 
ordered  the  car  for  half-past  three." 

"It's  that  now." 

"Well,  then  I  must  be  going  almost  directly." 

"You  must  stay  for  tea.  A  lot  of  people  are  coming,  and 
we  shall  have  music.  Alick  Craven  only  accepted  because  I 
told  him  you  would  be  here." 

"But  you  told  me  he  had  accepted  when  you  asked  me." 

"That's  how  I  do  things  when  I  really  want  people  who  may 
not  want  to  come.  I  lied  to  both  of  you,  and  here  you  both 
are." 

"Well,  at  any  rate  you  are  honest  in  confession." 

"I  will  counterorder  your  car.  Henry,  please  tell  Lady  Sell- 
ingworth's  chauflfeur  that  he  will  be  sent  for  when  he  is  wanted. 
Oh,  Anne,  welcome  the  wandering  sheep  back  to  the  social 
fold !" 

She  threaded  her  way  slowly  through  the  crowd,  talking 
calmly  to  one  and  another,  seeing  everything,  understanding 
everything,  tremendously  at  home  in  the  midst  of  complications. 

Lady  Sellingworth  talked  to  Lady  Anne,  who  had  just  come 
back  from  Mexico.  It  was  her  way  to  dart  about  the  world, 
leaving  her  husband  in  his  arm-chair  at  the  Marlborough.  She 
brought  gossip  with  her  from  across  the  seas,  gossip  about 


878  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

exotic  Presidents  and  their  mistresses,  about  revolutionary  gen- 
erals and  explorers,  about  opera  singers  in  Havana,  and  great 
dancers  in  the  Argentine.  In  her  set  she  was  called  "the  peri- 
patetic pug,"  but  she  had  none  of  the  pug's  snoring  laziness. 
Presently  someone  took  her  away  to  play  bridge,  and  for  a 
moment  Lady  Sellingworth  was  standing  alone.  She  was  close 
to  a  great  window  which  gave  on  to  the  terrace  at  the  back 
of  the  house  facing  the  falling  gardens  and  the  woods.  She 
looked  out,  then  looked  across  the  room.  Craven  was  stand- 
ing near  the  door.  He  had  just  come  in  with  a  lot  of  men 
from  the  dining-room.  He  had  a  cigar  in  his  hand.  His  cheeks 
were  flushed.  He  looked  hot  and  drawn,  like  a  man  in  a  noisy 
prison  of  heat  which  excited  him,  but  tormented  him  too. 
His  eyes  shone  almost  feverishly.  As  she  looked  at  him,  not 
knowing  that  he  was  being  watched  he  drew  a  long  breath, 
almost  like  a  man  who  feared  suflfocation.  Immediately  after- 
wards he  glanced  across  the  room  and  saw  her. 

She  beckoned  to  him.  With  a  reluctant  air,  and  looking 
severe,  he  came  across  to  her. 

"Are  you  going  to  play  bridge?"  she  said. 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"Dindie  has  persuaded  me  to  stay  on  for  the  music.  Shall 
we  take  a  little  walk  in  the  garden?  I  am  so  unaccustomed 
to  crowds  that  I  am  longing  for  air." 

She  paused,  then  added : 

"And  a  little  quiet." 

"Certainly,"  he  said  stiffly. 

"Does  he  hate  me?"  she  thought,  with  a  sinking  of  despair. 
He  went  to  fetch  her  wrap.    They  met  in  the  hall. 

"Where  are  you  two  going?" 

Dindie  Ackroyde's  all-seeing  eyes  had  perceived  them. 

"Only  to  get  a  breath  of  air  in  the  garden,"  said  Lady 
Sellingworth. 

"How  sensible  1" 

She  gave  them  a  watchful  smile  and  spoke  to  Eve  Colton, 
who  was  hunting  for  the  right  kind  of  bridge,  stick  in  hand. 

"I'll  find  Melville  for  you.  Jennie  and  Sir  Arthur  are  wait- 
ing in  the  card-room." 

"I  hope  you  don't  mind  coming  out  for  a  moment?" 

Lady  Sellingworth's  unconquerable  diffidence  was  persecut- 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  379 

ing  her.     She  spoke  almost  with  timidity  to  Craven  on  the 
doorstep. 

"Oh,  no.    I  am  delighted." 

His  young  voice  was  carefully  frigid. 

"More  motors!"  she  said.  "The  whole  of  London  will  be 
here  by  tea  time." 

"Great  fun,  isn't  it?     Such  a  squash  of  interesting  people." 

"And  I  am  taking  you  away  from  them !" 

"That's  all  right !" 

"Oh,  what  an  Eton  boy's  voice !"  she  thought. 

But  she  loved  it.  That  was  the  truth.  His  youngness  was 
so  apparent  in  his  coldness  that  he  was  more  dangerous  than 
ever  to  her  who  had  an  unconquerable  passion  for  youth. 

"Let  us  go  through  this  door  in  the  wall.  It  must  lead  to 
the  gardens." 

"Certainly !" 

He  pushed  it  open.  They  passed  through  and  were  away 
from  the  motors,  standing  on  a  broad  terrace  which  turned  at 
right  angles  and  skirted  the  back  of  the  house. 

"Don't  let  us  go  round  that  corner  before  all  the  drawing- 
room  windows." 

"No?"  he  said. 

"Unless  you  prefer " 

**I  will  go  wherever  you  like." 

"I  thought— what  about  this  path?" 

"Shall  we  go  down  it?" 

"I  think  it  looks  rather  tempting." 

They  walked  slowly  on,  descending  a  slight  incline,  and 
came  to  a  second  long  terrace  on  a  lower  level.  There  was  a 
good  deal  of  brick-work  in  Mrs.  Ackroyde's  garden,  but  there 
were  some  fine  trees,  and  in  summer  the  roses  were  wonderful. 
Now  there  were  not  many  flowers,  but  at  least  there  were  calm 
and  silence,  and  the  breath  of  the  winter  woods  came  to  Lady 
Sellingworth  and  Craven. 

Craven  said  nothing,  and  walked  stiffly  beside  his  companion 
looking  straight  ahead.  He  seemed  entirely  unlike  the  man  who 
had  talked  so  enthusiastically  in  her  drawing-room  after  the 
dinner  in  the  Bella  Napoli,  and  again  on  that  second  evening 
when  they  had  dined  together  without  the  company  of  Beryl 
Van  Tuyn.    But  Dindie  Ackroyde  had  said  he  had  come  down 


S80  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

that  day  because  he  had  been  told  he  would  meet  her.  And 
Dindie  was  scarcely  ever  wrong  about  people.  But  this  time 
surely  she  had  made  a  mistake. 

"Oh,  there's  the  hard  court!"  Lady  Sellingworth  said. 

"Yes." 

"It  looks  a  beauty." 

"Do  you  play?" 

"I  used  to.     But  I  have  given  it  up." 

After  a  silence  she  added : 

"You  know  I  have  given  up  everything.     There  comes  a 
time " 

She  hesitated. 

"Perhaps  you  will  not  believe  it,  but  I  feel  very  strange  here 
with  all  these  people." 

"But  you  know  them  all,  don't  you  ?" 

"Nearly  all.    But  they  mean  nothing  to  me  now." 

They  were  walking  slowly  up  and  down  the  long  terrace. 

"One  passes  away  from  things,"  she  said,  "as  one  goes  on. 
It  is  rather  a  horrible  feeling." 

Suddenly,  moved  by  an  impulse  that  was  almost  girlish,  she 
stopped  on  the  path  and  said: 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you  to-day?    Why  are  you  angry 
with  me?" 

Craven  flushed. 

"Angry !    But  I  am  not  angry !" 

"Yes,  you  are.    Tell  me  why." 

"How  could  I — I'm  really  not  angry.    As  if  I  could  be  angry 
with  you !" 

"Then  why  are  you  so  diflferent?" 

"In  what  way  am  I  difTerent?" 

She  did  not  answer,  but  said : 

"Did  you  hear  what  the  baron  and  I  were  talking  about  at' 
lunch?" 

"Just  a  few  words." 

"I  hope  you  didn't  think  I  wished  to  join  in  gossip  about 
Beryl  Van  Tuyn?" 

"Of  course  not." 

"I  hate  all  such  talk.    If  that  offended  you " 

She  was  losing  her  dignity  and  knew  it,  but  a  great  longing 
to  overcome  his  rigidity  drove  her  on. 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  381 

"If  you  think " 


"It  wasn't  that !"  he  said.  "I  have  no  reason  to  mind  what 
anyone  says  about  Miss  Van  Tuyn." 

"But  she's  your  friend !" 

"Is  she?  I  think  a  friend  is  a  very  rare  thing.  You  have 
taught  me  that." 

"I?    How?" 

"You  went  abroad  without  letting  me  know." 

"Is  that  it?"  she  said. 

And  there  was  a  strange  note,  Hke  a  note  of  joy,  in  her  voice. 

"I  think  you  might  have  told  me.  And  you  put  me  off.  I 
was  to  have  seen  you " 

"Yes,  I  know." 

She  was  silent.  She  could  not  explain.  That  was  impos- 
sible. Yet  she  longed  to  tell  him  how  much  she  had  wished 
to  see  him,  how  much  it  had  cost  her  to  go  without  a  word- 
But  suddenly  she  remembered  Camber.  He  was  angry  with 
her,  but  he  had  very  soon  consoled  himself  for  her  departure. 

"I  went  away  quite  unexpectedly,"  she  said.  "I  had  to  go 
like  that." 

"I — I  hope  you  weren't  ill?" 

He  recalled  Braybrooke's  remarks  about  doctors.  Perhaps 
she  had  really  been  ill.  Perhaps  something  had  happened 
abroad,  and  he  had  done  her  a  wrong. 

"No,  I  haven't  been  ill.     It  wasn't  that,"  she  said. 

The  thought  of  Camber  persisted,  and  now  persecuted  her. 

"I  am  quite  sure  you  didn't  miss  me,"  she  said,  with  a  colder 
voice. 

"But  I  did!"  he  said. 

"For  how  long?" 

The  mocking  look  he  knew  so  well  had  come  into  her  eyes. 
How  much  did  she  know  ? 

"Have  you  seen  Miss  Van  Tuyn  since  you  came  back?"  he 
asked. 

"Oh,  yes.    She  paid  me  a  visit  soon  after  I  arrived." 

Craven  looked  down.  He  realized  that  something  had  been 
said,  that  Miss  Van  Tuyn  had  perhaps  talked  injudiciously. 
But  even  if  she  had,  why  should  Lady  Sellingworth  mind?  His 
relation  with  her  was  so  utterly  different  from  his  relation  with 
the  lovely  American.    It  never  occurred  to  him  that  this  won- 


S82  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

derful  elderly  woman,  for  whom  he  had  such  a  peculiar  feel- 
ing, could  care  for  him  at  all  as  a  girl  might,  could  think 
of  him  as  a  woman  thinks  of  a  man  with  whom  she  might 
have  an  affair  of  the  heart.  She  fascinated  him.  Yes!  But 
she  did  not  fascinate  that  part  of  him  which  instinctively  re- 
sponded to  Beryl  Van  Tuyn.  And  that  he  fascinated  her  in  any 
physical  way  simply  did  not  enter  his  mind.  Nevertheless,  at 
that  moment  he  felt  uncomfortable  and,  absurdly  enough,  almost 
guilty. 

"Have  you  seen  Beryl  since  her  father's  death?"  said  Lady 
Sellingworth. 

"No,"  he  said.    "At  least — ^yes,  I  suppose  I  have." 

"You  suppose?" 

Her  eyes  had  not  lost  their  mocking  expression. 

"I  happened  to  see  her  in  Glebe  Place  with  that  fellow  they 
are  all  chattering  about,  but  I  didn't  speak  to  her.  I  believe 
her  father  was  dead  then.     But  I  didn't  know  it  at  the  time.'* 

"Oh!     Is  he  so  very  handsome,  as  they  say?" 

She  could  not  help  saying  this,  and  watching  him  as  she 
said  it. 

"I  should  say  he  was  a  good-looking  chap,"  answered  Craven 
frigidly.     "But  he  looks  like  a  wrong  'un." 

"It  is  difficult  to  tell  what  people  are  at  a  glance." 

"Some  people — yes.  But  I  think  with  others  one  look  is 
enough." 

"Yes,  that's  true,"  she  said,  thinking  of  him.  "Shall  we  go 
a  little  farther  towards  the  woods?" 

"Yes;  let  us." 

She  knew  he  was  suffering  obscurely  that  day,  perhaps  in 
his  pride,  perhaps  in  something  else.  She  hoped  it  was  in 
his  pride.  Anyhow,  she  felt  pity  for  him  in  her  new-found 
happiness.  For  she  was  happier  now  in  comparison  with  what 
she  had  been.  And  with  that  happiness  came  a  great  longing 
to  comfort  him,  to  draw  him  out  of  his  cold  reserve,  to  turn 
him  into  the  eager  and  almost  confidential  boy  he  had  been 
with  her.  As  they  passed  the  red  tennis  court  and  walked 
towards  the  end  of  the  garden  which  skirted  the  woods  she 
said: 

"I  want  you  to  understand  something.  I  know  it  must  have 
seemed  unfriendly  in  me  to  put  you  off,  and  then  to  leave 


CHAPTER  I  DECEMBER  LOVE  383 

England  without  letting  you  know.  But  I  had  a  reason  which 
I  can't  explain." 

"Yes?" 

"I  shall  never  be  able  to  explain  it.  But  if  I  could  you 
would  realize  at  once  that  my  friendship  for  you  was  un- 
altered." 

"Well,  but  you  didn't  let  me  know  you  were  back.  You  did 
not  ask  me  to  come  to  see  you." 

"I  did  not  think  you  would  care  to  come." 

"But— why?" 

"I — perhaps  you — I  don't  find  it  easy  now  to  think  that  any- 
one can  care  much  to  be  bothered  with  me." 

"Oh— Lady  Sellingworth !" 

"That  really  is  the  truth.  Believe  it  or  not,  as  you  like. 
You  see,  I  am  out  of  things  now." 

"You  need  never  be  out  of  things  unless  you  choose." 

"Oh,  the  world  goes  on  and  leaves  one  behind.  Don't  you 
remember  my  telling  you  and  Beryl  once  that  I  was  an 
Edwardian  ?" 

"If  that  means  un-modern  I  think  I  prefer  it  to  modernity. 
I  think  perhaps  I  have  an  old-fashioned  soul." 

He  was  smiling  now.  The  hard  look  had  gone  from  his 
eyes;  the  ice  in  his  manner  had  melted.  She  felt  that  she 
was  forgiven.  And  she  tried  to  put  the  thought  of  Camber 
out  of  her  mind.  Beryl  was  unscrupulous.  Perhaps  she  had 
exaggerated.  And,  in  any  case,  surely  she  had  treated,  was 
treating,  him  badly. 

She  felt  that  he  and  she  were  friends  again,  that  he  was 
glad  to  be  with  her  once  more.  There  was  really  a  link  of 
sympathy  between  them.  And  he  had  been  angry  because  she 
had  gone  abroad  without  telling  him.  She  thought  of  his  anger 
and  loved  it. 

That  day,  after  tea,  while  the  music  was  still  going  on 
in  Dindie  Ackroyde's  drawing-room,  they  drove  back  to  London 
together,  leaving  their  reputations  quite  comfortably  behind 
them  in  the  hand  of  the  "old  guard." 


CHAPTER  II 

BERYL  VAN  TUYN  found  that  it  was  not  necessary  for 
her  to  cross  the  ocean  on  account  of  her  father's  sudden 
death.  He  had  left  all  his  affairs  in  excellent  order,  and  the 
chief  part  of  his  fortune  was  bequeathed  to  her.  She  had 
always  had  plenty  of  money.  Now  she  was  rich.  She  went 
into  mourning,  answered  suitably  the  many  letters  of  condolence 
that  poured  in  upon  her,  and  then  considered  what  she  had 
better  do. 

Miss  Cronin  pleaded  persistently  for  an  immediate  return  to 
Paris.  What  was  the  good  of  staying  on  in  London  now? 
The  winter  was  dreary  in  London.  The  flat  in  Paris  was 
far  more  charming  and  elegant  than  any  hotel.  Beryl  had  all 
her  lovely  things  about  her  there.  Her  chief  friends  were 
in  Paris.  She  could  see  them  quietly  at  home.  And  it  was 
quite  impossible  for  her  to  go  about  London  now  that  she  was 
plunged  in  mourning.  What  would  they  do  there?  She,  Miss 
Cronin,  could  go  on  as  usual,  of  course.  She  never  did  any- 
thing special.  But  Beryl  would  surely  be  bored  to  death  liv- 
ing the  life  of  a  hermit  in  Claridge's. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  listened  to  all  that  old  Fanny  had  to  say, 
and  made  no  attempt  to  refute  her  arguments  or  reply  to 
her  exhortations.  She  merely  remarked  that  she  would  think 
the  matter  over. 

"But  what  is  there  to  think  over,  darling?"  said  Miss  Cronin, 
lifting  her  painted  eyebrows.  "There  is  nothing  to  keep  us 
here.    You  never  go  to  the  Wallace  Collection  now." 

"Do  please  allow  me  to  be  the  judge  of  what  I  want  to 
do  with  my  life,  Fanny,"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  curtly.  "When 
I  wish  to  pack  up  I'll  tell  you." 

And  old  Fanny  collapsed  like  a  pricked  bladder.  She  could 
not  understand  Beryl  any  longer.  The  girl  seemed  to  be  quite 
beyond  her  reach.  She  thought  of  Alick  Craven  and  of  the 
man   in   the   blue   overcoat   with   the   strange   name,    Nicolas 

384 


CHAPTER  n  DECEMBER  LOVE  385 

Arabian.  She  had  seen  neither  of  them  again.  Beryl  never 
mentioned  them.  But  Fanny  was  sure  that  one,  or  both,  o£ 
them  held  her  in  London,  Something  must  be  in  the  wind, 
something  dangerous  to  any  companion.  She  felt  on  the 
threshold  of  an  alarming,  perhaps  disastrous,  change.  As  she 
went  nowhere  she  knew  nothing  of  Beryl's  visit  to  Rose  Tree 
Gardens  and  of  the  gossip  it  had  set  going  in  certain  circles 
in  London.  But  she  had  never  been  able  to  forget  the  impres- 
sion she  had  had  when  Beryl  had  introduced  her  to  the  man 
with  the  melting  brown  eyes.  Beryl  was  surely  in  love.  Yet 
she  did  not  look  happy.  Certainly  her  father's  death  might 
have  upset  her.  But  Miss  Cronin  did  not  think  that  was  suffi- 
cient to  account  for  the  change  in  the  girl.  She  had  something 
on  her  mind  besides  that.  Miss  Cronin  was  certain  of  it. 
Beryl's  cool  self-assurance  was  gone.  She  was  restless.  She 
brooded.  She  seemed  quite  unable  to  settle  to  anything  or 
to  come  to  any  decision. 

Old  Fanny  began  to  be  seriously  alarmed.  Mrs.  Clem  Hod- 
son  had  gone  back  to  Philadelphia.  She  had  no  one  to  consult, 
no  one  to  apply  to.  She  felt  quite  helpless.  Even  Bourget 
could  give  her  no  solace.  She  had  a  weak  imagination,  but  it 
now  began  to  trouble  her.  As  she  lay  upon  her  sofa,  she^ 
always  feebly,  imagined  many  things.  But  oftenest  she  saw 
a  vague  vision  of  Mr.  Craven  and  Mr.  Arabian  fighting  a 
duel  because  of  Beryl.  They  were  in  a  forest  clearing  near 
Paris  in  early  morning.  It  was  a  duel  with  revolvers,  as 
Bourget  might  have  described  it.  She  saw  their  buttoned-up 
coats,  their  stretched-out  arms.  Which  did  she  wish  to  be 
the  victor  ?  And  which  would  Beryl  wish  to  return  unwounded 
to  Paris?  Surely  Mr.  Arabian.  He  was  so  kind,  so  enticingly 
gentle ;  he  had  such  beautiful  eyes.  And  yet — and  at  this  point 
old  Fanny's  imagination  ceased  to  function,  and  something  else 
displayed  a  certain  amount  of  energy,  her  knowledge  of  the 
world.  What  would  Mr,  Arabian  be  like  as  a  husband?  He 
was  charming,  seductive  even,  caressingly  sympathetic — yes, 
caressingly!  But — as  a  husband?  And  old  Fanny  felt  mys- 
teriously that  something  in  her  recoiled  from  the  idea  of 
Arabian  as  the  husband  of  Beryl,  whereas  she  could  think 
of  Mr.  Craven  in  that  situation  quite  calmly.  It  was  all  very 
odd,  and  it  made  her  very  uncomfortable.     It  even  agitated 


386  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

her,  and  she  felt  her  solitude  keenly.  There  had  never  been 
a  real  link  between  Beryl  and  her,  and  she  knew  it.  But  now 
she  felt  herself  strangly  alone  in  the  midst  of  perhaps  threat- 
ening dangers.  If  only  Beryl  would  become  frank,  would  speak 
out,  would  consult  her,  ask  her  advice!  But  the  girl  was  en- 
closed in  a  reserve  that  was  flawless.  There  was  not  a  single 
breach  in  the  wall.  And  the  dark  winter  had  descended  on 
London. 

One  evening  Miss  Van  Tuyn  felt  almost  desperate.  En- 
closed in  her  reserve  she  longed  for  a  confidante;  she  longed 
to  talk  things  over,  to  take  counsel  with  someone.  She  had 
even  a  desire  to  ask  for  advice.  But  she  knew  no  one  in 
London  to  whom  she  could  unbosom  herself.  Fanny  did  not 
count.  Old  Fanny  was  a  fool  and  quite  incapable  of  being 
useful  mentally  to  anyone  with  good  brains.  And  to  what 
other  woman  could  she  speak,  she,  Beryl  Van  Tuyn,  the 
notoriously  clever,  notoriously  independent,  young  beauty,  who 
had  always  hitherto  held  the  reins  of  her  own  destiny?  If  only 
she  could  speak  to  a  man !  But  there  the  sex  question  intruded 
itself.  No  man  would  be  impartial  unless  he  were  tremendously 
old.  And  she  had  no  tremendously  old  man  friend,  having 
always  preferred  those  who  were  still  in  possession  of  all  their 
faculties. 

No  young  man  could  be  impartial,  least  of  all  Alick  Craven ; 
and  yet  she  wished  intensely  that  she  had  not  lost  her  head 
that  day  in  Glebe  Place,  that  she  had  carried  out  her  original 
intention  and  had  introduced  Craven  to  Arabian. 

She  knew  what  people  were  saying  of  her  in  London.  Al- 
though she  was  in  deep  mourning  and  could  not  go  about,  sev- 
eral women  had  been  to  see  her.  They  had  come  to  condole 
with  her,  and  had  managed  to  let  her  understand  what  people 
were  murmuring.  Lady  Archie  had  been  with  her.  Mrs. 
Birchington  had  looked  in.  And  two  days  after  Lady  Selling- 
worth's  visit  to  Coombe  Dindie  Ackroyde  had  called.  From  her 
Miss  Van  Tuyn  had  heard  of  Craven's  walk  in  the  garden  with 
Adela  Sellingworth  and  early  departure  to  London  in  Adela's 
motor.  In  addition  to  this  piece  of  casually  imparted  news, 
Mrs.  Ackroyde  had  frankly  told  Miss  Van  Tuyn  that  she  was 
being  gossiped  about  in  a  disagreeable  way  and  that,  in  spite 
of  her  established  reputation  for  unconventionality,  she  ought 


CHAPTER  n  DECEMBER  LO\^E  387 

to  be  more  careful.  And  Miss  Van  Tuyti — astonishingly — 
had  not  resented  this  plain  speaking.  Mrs.  Ackroyde,  of  course, 
had  tried  to  find  out  something  about  Nicolas  Arabian,  but 
Miss  Van  Tuyn  had  evaded  the  not  really  asked  questions,  and 
had  treated  the  whole  matter  with  an  almost  airy  casualness 
which  had  belied  all  that  was  in  her  mind. 

But  these  visits,  and  especially  Dindie  Ackroyde's,  had  deep- 
ened the  nervous  pre-occupation  which  was  beginning  seriously 
to  alarm  old  Fanny. 

If  she  took  old  Fanny's  advice  and  left  London?  If  she 
returned  to  Paris?  She  believed,  indeed  she  felt  certain,  that 
to  do  that  would  not  be  to  separate  from  Arabian.  He  would 
follow  her  there.  If  she  took  the  wings  of  the  morning  and 
flew  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth  there  surely  she  would 
find  him.  She  began  to  think  of  him  as  a  hound  on  the  trail 
of  her.  And  yet  she  did  not  want  him  to  lose  the  trail. 
She  combined  fear  with  desire  in  a  way  that  was  inexplicable 
to  herself,  that  sometimes  seemed  to  her  like  a  sort  of  complex 
madness.  But  her  reason  for  remaining  in  London  was  not 
to  be  found  in  Arabian's  presence  there.  And  she  knew  that. 
If  she  went  to  Paris  she  would  be  separated  from  Alick  Craven. 
She  did  not  want  to  be  separated  from  him.  And  now  Dindie 
Ackroyde's  news  intensified  her  reluctance  to  yield  to  old 
Fanny's  persuasions  and  to  return  to  her  bronzes.  Her  clever 
visit  to  Adela  Sellingworth  had  evidently  not  achieved  its  object. 
In  spite  of  her  so  deliberate  confession  to  Adela  the  latter 
had  once  more  taken  possession  of  Craven. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  felt  angry  and  disgusted,  even  indignant, 
but  she  also  felt  saddened  and  almost  alarmed. 

Knowing  men  very  well,  being  indeed  an  expert  in  male 
psychology,  she  realized  that  perhaps,  probably  even,  her  own 
action  had  driven  Craven  back  to  his  friendship  with  Adela. 
But  that  fact  did  not  make  things  more  pleasant  for  her. 
She  knew  that  she  had  seriously  offended  Craven.  She  re- 
membered the  look  in  his  face  as  he  passed  quickly  by  her 
and  Arabian  in  Glebe  Place.  He  had  not  been  to  see  her 
since,  and  had  not  written  to  condole  with  her.  She  knew 
that  she  had  outraged  his  pride,  and  perhaps  something  else. 
Yet  she  could  not  make  up  her  mind  to  leave  England  and 
drop  out  of  his  life.     To  do  that  would  be  like  a  confession 


388  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

of  defeat.  But  it  was  not  only  her  vanity  which  prompted  her 
to  stay  on.  She  had  a  curious  and  strong  hking  for  Craven 
which  was  very  sincere.  It  was  absolutely  unlike  the  painful 
attraction  which  pushed  her  towards  Arabian.  There  was 
trust  in  it,  a  longing  for  escape  from  something  dangerous, 
something  baleful,  into  peace  and  security.  There  was  even 
a  moral  impulse  in  it  such  as  she  had  never  felt  till  now. 

What  was  she  to  do?  She  suffered  in  uncertainty.  Her 
nerves  were  all  on  edge.  She  felt  irritable,  angry,  like  some- 
one being  punished  and  resenting  the  punishment.  And  she 
felt  horribly  dull.  Her  mourning  prohibited  her  from  seeking 
distractions.  People  were  gossiping  about  her  unpleasantly 
already.  She  remembered  Dindie  Ackroyde's  warning,  and 
knew  she  had  better  heed  it.  She  felt  heartless  because  she  was 
unable  to  be  really  distressed  about  the  death  of  her  father.  Old 
Fanny  bored  her  when  she  did  not  actively  worry  her.  She 
was  terribly  sorry  for  herself. 

In  the  evening,  while  she  was  shting  alone  in  her  room  list- 
lessly reading  a  book  on  modern  painting  by  an  author  with 
whose  views  she  did  not  agree,  and  looking  forward  to  a  prob- 
ably sleepless  night,  there  was  a  knock  on  the  door,  and  a  rosy 
cheeked  page  boy,  all  alertness  and  buttons,  tripped  in  with  a 
note  on  a  salver. 

"Any  answer?"  she  said. 

"No,  mum." 

She  took  the  note,  and  at  once  recognized  Dick  Garstin's 
enormous  handwriting.     Quickly  she  opened  it  and  read. 

Glebe, 

Wed. 

Dear  B., — Does  your  mourning  prevent  you  from  looking  at  a  damned 
good  picture?  If  not,  come  round  to  the  studio  to-morrow  any  time 
after  lunch  and  have  a  squint  at  a  king  in  the  underworld. 

D.  G. 

At  once  her  feeling  of  acute  boredom  left  her,  was  replaced 
by  a  keen  sense  of  excitement.  She  realized  immediately  that 
at  last  Garstin  had  finished  his  picture,  that  at  last  he  had  satis- 
fied himself.  She  had  not  seen  Garstin  since  the  day  when  she 
had  heard  of  her  father's  death.  Nor  had  she  seen  Arabian. 
Characteristically,  Garstin  had  not  taken  the  trouble  to  send 
her  a  letter  of  condolence.     He  never  bothered  to  do  anything 


CHAPTER  II  DECEMBER  LOVE  389 

conventional.  If  he  had  written  he  would  probably  have  con- 
gratulated her  on  coming  into  a  fortune.  Arabian's  sympathy 
had  already  been  expressed.  Naturally,  therefore,  he  had  not 
written  to  her.  But  he  had  made  no  sign  in  all  these  days, 
had  not  left  a  card,  had  not  attempted  to  see  her.  Day  after 
day  she  had  wondered  whether  he  would  do  something,  give 
some  evidence  of  life,  of  intention.  Nothing!  He  had  just  let 
her  alone.  But  in  his  inaction  she  had  felt  him  intensely,  far 
more  than  she  felt  other  men  in  their  actions.  He  had,  as 
it  were,  surrounded  her  with  his  silence,  had  weighed  upon  her 
by  his  absence.  She  feared  and  was  fascinated  by  his  ap- 
parent indifference,  as  formerly,  when  with  him,  she  had  feared 
and  been  fascinated  by  his  reticence  of  speech  and  of  con- 
duct. Only  once  had  he  taken  the  initiative  with  her,  when 
he  had  ordered  the  taxi-cab  driver  to  go  to  Rose  Tree  Gardens. 
And  even  then,  when  he  had  had  her  there  alone  in  his  flat, 
nothing  had  happened.  And  he  had  let  her  go  without  any 
attempt  to  detain  her. 

In  his  passivity  there  was  something  hypnotic  which  acted 
upon  her.  She  felt  it  charged  with  power,  with  intention,  even 
almost  with  brutality.  There  was  a  great  cry  for  her  in  his 
silence. 

She  did  not  answer  Garstin's  note.  That  was  not  necessary. 
She  knew  she  would  see  him  on  the  morrow. 

Directly  after  lunch  on  the  following  day  she  walked  to  Glebe 
Place,  wondering  whether  Arabian  would  be  there. 

As  usual,  Garstin  answered  the  door  and  covered  her  with 
a  comprehensive  glance  as  she  stood  on  the  doorstep. 

"Black  suits  you,"  he  said.  "You  ought  never  to  go  out 
of  mourning." 

"Thank  you  for  your  kind  sympathy,  Dick,"  she  answered. 
"One  can  always  depend  on  you  for  delicacy  of  feeling  and 
expression  in  time  of  trouble." 

He  smiled  as  he  shut  the  door. 

"You  tartar!"  he  said.  "Be  careful  you  don't  develop  into 
a  shrew  as  you  get  on  in  life." 

She  noticed  at  once  that  he  was  looking  unusually  happy. 
There  was  even  something  almost  of  softness  in  his  face,  some- 
thing almost  of  kindness,  certainly  of  cordiality,  in  his  eyes. 


390  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

"Evidently  coming  into  money  hasn't  had  a  softening  influ- 
ence upon  you,"  he  added. 

To  her  surprise  he  took  her  into  the  ground  floor  studio  and 
sat  down  on  the  big  divan  there. 

"Aren't  we  going  upstairs  ?"  she  said. 

"In  a  minute.    Don't  be  in  such  a  blasted  hurry,  my  girl!" 

"Well,  but " 

She  followed  his  example  and  sat  down. 

"Is  anyone  up  there  ?" 

"Not  a  soul.    Who  should  there  be?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know.    I  thought  perhaps " 

"Old  Nick  was  there,  eh?    Well,  he  isn't!" 

"How  absurd  you  are!"  she  said,  almost  with  confusion, 
and  looking  away  from  him.  "I  only  wondered  whether  you 
had  a  model  with  you." 

"I  know,  I  know!" 

After  a  rather  long  pause  she  said: 

"What  are  we  waiting  here  for?" 

"Oh— just  to  rest!" 

"But  I'm  not  tired." 

"I  didn't  suppose  you  were." 

Again  there  was  a  pause,  in  which  Miss  Van  Tuyn  felt  a 
tingling  of  impatient  irritation. 

"I  suppose  you  are  doing  this  merely  to  whet  my  appetite," 
she  said  presently,  unable  to  bear  the  unnatural  silence,  "Of 
course  I  know  you  have  finished  the  picture  at  last.  You 
have  asked  me  to  come  here  to  see  it.  Then  why  on  earth 
not  let  me  see  it?  All  this  waiting  can't  come  from  timidity. 
I  know  you  don't  care  for  opinion  so  long  as  your  own  is 
satisfied." 

He  sent  her  an  odd  look  that  was  almost  boyish  in  its  half 
mischievous,  half  wistful  roguishness. 

"My  girl,  you  speak  about  a  painter  with  great  assurance, 
and,  let  me  add,  with  great  ignorance,  I'll  tell  you  the  plain 
truth  for  once.  I've  been  keeping  you  down  here  out  of  sheer 
diffidence.    Now  then!" 

"Dick !" 

His  lean  blue  cheeks  slightly  reddened  as  he  looked  at  her. 
She  knew  he  had  spoken  the  truth,  and  was  touched.  She  got 
up  quickly,  went  to  him,  and  put  one  hand  on  his  shoulder. 


CHAPTER  II  DECEMBER  LOVE  391 

"You  are  afraid  of  me!    But  no — I  can't  believe  it!" 

"Ha!" 

He  got  up. 

"It  is  finished?" 

"Yes,  at  last  it's  done." 

"Has — have  you  shown — I  suppose  he  has  seen  it?" 

Garstin  shook  his  head,  and  a  dark  lock  of  hair  fell  over' 
his  forehead. 

"He  doesn't  even  know  it  is  finished,  the  ruffian!  He's 
given  me  a  damned  lot  of  trouble.  I'll  keep  him  on  the  grid- 
iron a  bit  longer.    Grilling  will  do  him  good." 

"Then  I  am  the  first?" 

"Yes,  you  are  the  first." 

"Thank  you,  Dick,"  she  said  soberly.    "May  I  go  up  now?" 

"Yes,  come  on !" 

He  went  before  her  and  mounted  the  stairs,  taking  long 
strides.  She  followed  him  eagerly,  yet  with  a  feeling  of  ap- 
prehension. What  would  it  be — this  portrait  finished  at  last? 
Dick  Garstin  was  cruelly  fond  of  revelation.  She  thought  of 
his  judge  who  ought  to  be  judged,  of  other  pictures  of  his. 
Had  he  caught  and  revealed  the  secret  of  Arabian? 

"Now  then!" 

But  Garstin  still  hesitated. 

"Sit  here!" 

She  obeyed,  and  sat  down  on  the  sofa  with  the  window  be- 
hind her. 

"I'll  have  a  smoke." 

"Oh!" 

He  went  to  the  Spanish  cabinet,  and  stood  with  his  back 
to  her,  apparently  searching.  He  lifted  things,  put  them  back. 
She  glowed  with  almost  furious  impatience.  At  last  he  found 
the  cigars.  Probably  he  had  nevef  had  to  seek  for  them.  He 
lit  up. 

"Now  then— a  drink!" 

"Oh,  Dick !"  she  breathed. 

But  she  made  no  other  protest. 

"Will  you?" 

"No!"  she  said  sharply. 

Then  she  gazed  at  him  and  said: 

"Yes." 


392  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

He  poured  out  whisky  for  her  and  himself,  added  some  soda 
water,  and  lifted  his  glass. 

"To  Arabian!"  he  said. 

*'Why  should  we  drink  to  Mr.  Arabian?" 

*'He  has  done  me  a  good  turn." 

There  was  a  look  in  his  eyes  now  which  she  did  not  like, 
a  very  intelligent  and  cruel  look.  She  knew  it  well.  It  ex- 
pressed almost  blatantly  the  man's  ruthlessness.  She  did  not 
inquire  what  the  good  turn  was,  but  raised  her  glass  slowly 
and  drank. 

"Your  hand  trembles,  my  girl !"  said  Garstin. 

"Nonsense !  It  does  not !  Now  please  show  me  the  portrait. 
I  will  not  wait  any  longer." 

"Here  you  are  then!" 

He  went  over  to  a  distant  easel,  pulled  it  forward  with  its 
"back  to  them,  then,  when  it  was  near  to  the  sofa,  turned  it 
round, 

"There  he  is  1" 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  sat  very  still  and  gazed.  After  turning 
the  easel  Dick  Garstin  had  gone  to  stand  behind  the  sofa  and 
her.  She  heard  him  making  a  little  "t'p!  t'p!"  with  his  lips, 
getting  rid,  perhaps,  of  an  adherent  scrap  of  tobacco  leaf. 
After  what  seemed  to  both  of  them  a  very  long  time  she 
spc^e. 

■"I  don't  believe  it !"  she  said.    "I  don't  believe  it !" 

"Like  the  man  when  he  saw  a  giraffe  for  the  first  time,  eh? 
But  he  was  wrong,  my  girl,  for  nature  does  turn  out  giraffes." 

"No,   Dick!     It's  too  bad!" 

Her  cheeks  were  flaming  with  red. 

"Too  bad!     Don't  you  think  it's  well  painted?" 

"Well  painted?  Of  course  it's  well — it's  magnificently 
painted !" 

He  chuckled  contentedly  behind  her. 

"Then  what's  the  matter  ?    What's  the  trouble  ?" 

"You  know  what's  the  matter.    You  know  quite  well." 

She  turned  sharply  round  on  the  sofa  and  faced  him  with 
angry  eyes. 

"There  was  a  great  actor  once  whose  portrait  was  painted 
by  a  great  artist,  an  artist  as  great  as  you  are.  It  was  ex- 
hibited and  then  handed  over  to  the  actor.    From  that  moment 


I 


<:hapter  II  DECEMBER  LOVE  393 

it  disappeared.  No  one  ever  saw  it.  The  actor  never  mentioned 
it.  And  yet  it  was  a  masterpiece.  When  the  actor  died  a 
search  was  made  for  the  portrait,  and  it  was  found  hidden 
in  an  attic  of  his  house.  It  had  been  slashed  almost  to  pieces 
with  a  knife.  Till  to-day  I  could  not  understand  such  a  deed 
as  that — the  killing  of  a  masterpiece.  But  now  I  can  under- 
stand it." 

"He  shall  have  it  and  put  a  knife  through  it  if  he  likes. 
But" — he  snapped  out  the  word  with  sudden  fierce  emphasis — 
^'but  I'll  exhibit  it  first." 

"He'll  never  let  you!"  Miss  Van  Tuyn  almost  cried  out. 

"Won't  he?    That  was  the  bargain!" 

"He  didn't  promise.  I  remember  quite  well  all  that  was  said. 
He  didn't  promise." 

"It  was  understood.  I  told  him  I  should  exhibit  the  picture 
and  that  afterwards  I'd  hand  it  over  to  him." 

"When  is  he  going  to  see  it  ?" 

"Why  do  you  ask  ?    Do  you  want  to  be  here  when  he  does  ?" 

She  did  not  answer.  She  was  staring  at  the  portrait,  and 
now  the  hot  colour  had  faded  from  her  face. 

"If  you  do  you  can  be  here.     I  don't  mind." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  she  repeated  slowly. 

All  that  she  had  sometimes  fancied,  almost  dimly,  and  feared 
about  Arabian  was  expressed  in  Garstin's  portrait  of  him.  The 
man  was  magnificent  on  the  canvas,  but  he  was  horrible.  Evil 
seemed  to  be  subtly  expressed  all  over  him.  That  was  what 
she  felt.  It  looked  out  of  his  large  brown  eyes.  But  that 
was  not  all.  Somehow,  in  some  curious  and  terrible  way, 
Garstin  had  saturated  his  mouth,  his  cheeks,  his  forehead, 
even  his  bare  neck  and  shoulders  with  the  hideous  thing.  Dan- 
ger was  everywhere,  the  warning  that  the  living  man  surely 
did  not  give,  or  only  gave  now  and  then  for  a  fleeting  instant. 

In  Garstin's  picture  Arabian  was  unmistakably  a  being  of 
the  underworld,  a  being  of  the  darkness,  of  secret  places  and 
hidden  deeds,  a  being  of  unspeakable  craft,  of  hideous  knowl- 
edge, of  ferocious  cynicism.  And  yet  he  was  marvellously 
handsome  and  full  of  force,  even  of  power.  It  could  not  be 
said  that  great  intellect  was  stamped  on  his  face,  but  a  fiercely 
vital  mentality  was  there,  a  mentality  that  could  frighten  and 
subdue,  that  could  command  and  be  sure  of  obedience.     In 


394  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

the  eyes  of  a  tiger  there  is  a  terrific  mentality.  Miss  Van 
Tuyn  thought  of  that  as  she  gazed  at  the  portrait. 

In  her  silence  now  she  was  trying  to  get  a  strong  hold  on 
herself.  The  first  shock  of  astonishment,  and  almost  of  horror, 
had  passed.  She  was  more  sharply  conscious  now  of  Garstin  in 
connexion  with  herself.    At  last  she  spoke  again. 

"Of  course  you  realize,  Dick,  that  such  a  portrait  as  that 
is  an  outrage.  It's  a  master  work,  I  believe,  but  it  is  an  out- 
rage.   You  cannot  exhibit  it." 

"But  I  shall.    This  man,  Arabian,  isn't  known." 

"How  can  we  tell  that?" 

"Do  you  know  a  living  creature  he  knows  or  who  knows 
him?" 

"Everyone  has  acquaintances.  Everyone  almost  has  friends. 
He  must  certainly  have  both." 

"God  knows  who  or  where  they  are." 

"You  cannot  exhibit  it,"  she  repeated  obstinately. 

"I  hate  art  in  kid  gloves.  But  this  is  too  merciless.  It  is 
more.     It  is  a  libel." 

"That's  just  where  you're  wrong." 

"No." 

"Beryl,  my  girl,  you  are  lying.     That's  no  use  with  me." 

"I  am  not  lying!"  she  said  with  hot  anger. 

Suddenly  she  felt  that  tears  had  come  into  her  eyes. 

"How  hateful  you  are!"  she  exclaimed. 

She  felt  frightened  under  the  eyes  of  the  portrait.  Gar- 
stin's  revelation  had  struck  upon  her  like  a  blow.  She  felt 
dazed  by  it.  Yet  she  longed  to  hit  back.  She  wanted  to  de- 
fend Arabian,  perhaps  because  she  felt  that  she  needed  de- 
fence. 

Garstin  came  abruptly  round  the  sofa  and  sat  down  by  her 
side. 

"What's  up?"  he  said  in  a  kinder  voice. 

"Why  do  you  paint  like  that?     It's  abominable!" 

"Tell  me  the  honest  truth — God's  own  truth,  as  they  call 
it,  I  don't  know  why — is  that  picture  fine,  is  it  my  best  work, 
or  isn't  it?" 

"I've  told  you  already.  It's  a  technical  masterpiece  and  a 
moral  outrage.  You  have  taken  a  man  for  a  model  and  painted 
a  beast." 


CHAPTER  II  DECEMBER  LOVE  395 

"Beryl,"  he  said  almost  solemnly,  "believe  it  or  not,  as  you 
can,  that  is  Arabian !" 

He  pointed  at  the  picture  as  he  spoke.  His  keen  eyes,  half 
shut,  were  fixed  upon  it. 

"That  is  the  real  man,  and  what  you  see  is  only  the  appear- 
ance he  chooses  to  give  of  himself." 

"How  do  you  know?    How  can  you  know  that?" 

"Haven't  I  the  power  to  show  men  and  women  as  in  essence 
they  are?" 

His  eyes  travelled  round  the  big  studio  slowly,  travelled 
from  canvas  to  canvas,  from  the  battered  old  siren  of  the 
streets  to  the  girl  who  was  dreaming  of  sins  not  yet  committed ; 
from  Cora  waiting  for  her  prey  to  the  judge  who  had  con- 
demned his. 

"Haven't  I?    And  don't  you  know  it?" 

"You  are  wrong  this  time,"  she  said  with  mutinous  deter- 
mination, but  still  with  the  tears  in  her  eyes.  "You  couldn't 
sum  up  Arabian.  You  tried  and  tried  again.  And  now  at 
last  you  have  forced  yourself  to  paint  him.  You  have  got 
angry.  That's  it.  You  have  got  furious  with  yourself  and 
with  him,  because  of  your  own  impotence,  and  you  have  painted 
him  in  a  passion." 

"Oh,  no !" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  never  felt  colder,  more  completely  master  of  myself  and 
my  passions,  than  when  I  painted  that  portrait." 

"But  you  asked  me  to  find  out  his  secret.  You  pushed  me 
into  his  company  that  I  might  find  it  out  and  help  you." 

"I  did!" 

"Well!"  she  said,  almost  triumphantly,  "I  have  never  found 
it  out." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  have." 

"No.  He  is  the  most  reserved,  uncommunicative  man  I  have 
ever  known." 

"Subconsciously  you  have  found  it  out.  and  you  have  con- 
veyed it  to  me.  And  that  is  the  result.  I  suspected  what  the 
man  was  the  first  time  I  laid  eyes  on  him.  When  I  got  him 
here  I  seemed  to  get  off  the  track  of  him.  For  he's  very 
deceptive — somehow.  Yes,  he's  damned  deceptive.  But  then 
you  put  me  wise.    Your  growing  terror  of  him  put  me  wise." 


396  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

He  looked  hard  into  her  eyes. 

"Beryl,  my  girl,  your  sex  has  intuitions.  One  of  them,  one 
of  yours,  I  have  painted.     And  there  it  is !" 

The  bell  sounded  below. 

"Ha!"  said  Garstin,  turning  his  head  sharply. 

He  listened  for  an  instant.     Then  he  said: 

"I'll  bet  you  anything  you  like  that's  the  king  himself.'* 

"The  king?" 

"In  the  underworld.    Did  you  walk  here  ?" 

"Yes." 

"He  must  have  seen  you.    He's  followed  you.    What  a  lark !" 

His  eyes  shone  with  a  sort  of  malicious  glee. 

"There  goes  the  bell  again !  Beryl,  I'll  have  him  up.  We'll 
show  him  himself." 

He  put  a  finger  to  his  lips  and  went  down,  leaving  her  alone 
with  the  portrait. 


CHAPTER  III 

COME  up!  Come  up,  my  boy!  I've  something  to  show 
you !" 

She  heard  steps  mounting  the  stairs,  and  got  up  from  the 
sofa.  She  looked  once  more  at  the  portrait,  then  turned  round 
to  meet  the  two  men,  standing  so  that  she  was  directly  in 
front  of  it.  Just  then  she  had  a  wish  to  conceal  it  from  Arabian, 
to  delay,  if  only  for  a  moment,  his  knowledge  of  what  had 
been  done. 

Arabian  came  into  the  studio  and  saw  her  in  her  mourning 
facing  him.  At  once  he  came  up  to  her  with  Dick  Garstin 
behind  him.  He  looked  grave,  sympathetic,  almost  reverential. 
His  brown  eyes  held  a  tender  expression  of  kindness. 

"Miss  Van  Tuyn !    I  did  not  know  you  were  here." 

She  saw  Garstin  smiling  ironically.  Arabian  took  her  hand 
and  pressed  it. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you  again." 

His  look,  his  pressure,  were  full  of  ardent  sympathy. 

"I  have  been  thinking  often  of  you  and  your  great  sorrow." 

"Thank  you !"    she   said,   almost   stammering. 

"And  what  is  it  I  am  to  see?"  said  Arabian,  turning  to 
Garstin. 

"Stand  away,  Beryl !"  said  Garstin  roughly. 

She  moved.  What  else  could  she  do?  Arabian  saw  the 
portrait  and  said : 

"Oh,  my  picture  at  last!" 

Then  he  took  a  step  forward,  and  there  was  a  silence  in  the 
studio. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  looked  at  the  floor  at  first.  Then,  as  the 
silence  continued,  she  raised  her  eyes  to  Arabian's.  She  did 
not  know  what  she  expected  to  see,  but  she  was  surprised 
at  what  she  did  see.  Standing  quite  still  immediately  in  front 
of  the  picture,  with  his  large  eyes  fixed  upon  it,  Arabian  was 
looking  very  calm.    There  was,  indeed,  scarcely  any  expression 

397 


398  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

in  his  face.  He  had  thrust  both  hands  into  the  pockets  of 
his  overcoat.  Miss  Van  Tuyn  wondered  whether  those  hands 
would  betray  any  feehng  if  she  could  see  them.  In  the  calm- 
ness of  his  face  she  thought  there  was  something  stony,  but 
she  was  not  quite  sure.  She  was,  perhaps,  too  painfully  moved, 
too  violently  excited  just  then  to  be  a  completely  accurate  ob- 
server. And  she  was  aware  of  that.  She  wished  Arabian 
would  speak.    When  was  he  going  to  speak? 

"Well?"  said  Garstin  at  last,  perhaps  catching  her  feeling. 
"What  do  you  think  of  the  thing?  Are  you  satisfied  with  it? 
I've  been  a  long  time  over  it,  but  there  it  is  at  last." 

He  laughed  slightly,  uneasily,  she  thought. 

"What's  the  verdict?" 

"One  moment — please !"  said  Arabian  in  an  unusually  soft 
voice. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  was  again  struck,  as  she  had  been  struck 
when  she  first  met  Arabian  in  the  studio,  by  the  man's  enormous 
self-possession.  She  felt  sure  that  he  must  be  feeling  furiously 
angry,  yet  he  did  not  show  a  trace  of  anger,  of  surprise,  of 
any  emotion.  Only  the  marked  softness  of  his  voice  was 
unusual.  He  seemed  to  be  examining  the  picture  with  quiet 
interest  and  care. 

"Well?  Well?"  said  Garstin  at  last,  with  a  sort  of  acute 
impatience  which  betrayed  to  her  that  he  was  really  uneasy. 
"Let's  hear  what  you  think,  though  we  know  you  don't  set 
up  for  being  a  judge  of  painting." 

"I  think  it  is  very  like,"  said  Arabian. 

"Oh,  Lord — hke!"  exclaimed  Garstin,  on  an  angry  gust 
of  breath.     "I'm  not  a  damned  photographer !" 

"Should  not  a  portrait  be  like?"  said  Arabian,  still  in  the 
very  soft  voice.     "Am  I  wrong,  then?" 

"Of  course  not !"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  frowning  at  Garstin. 

At  that  moment  absolutely,  and  without  any  reserve,  she  hated 
him. 

"Then  you're  satisfied?"  jerked  out  Garstin. 

"Indeed — ^yes,  Dick  Garstin.  This  is  a  valuable  possession 
for  me." 

"Possession?"  said  Garstin,  as  if  startled.  "Oh,  yes,  to  be 
sure !     You're  to  have  it — presently !" 


CHAPTER  III  DECEMBER  LOVE  399 

"Quite  so.  I  am  to  have  it.  It  is  indeed  very  fine.  Do 
not  you  think  so,  Miss  Van  Tuyn?" 

For  the  first  time  since  he  had  seen  the  portrait  he  looked 
away  from  it,  and  his  eyes  rested  on  her.  She  felt  that  she 
trembled  under  those  eyes,  and  hoped  that  he  did  not  see  it. 

"You  do  not  say!    Surely  this  is  a  very  fine  picture?" 

He  seemed  to  be  asking  her  to  tell  him  whether  or  not  the 
portrait  ought  to  be  admired.  There  was  just  then  an  odd 
simplicity,  or  pretence  of  simplicity,  in  his  manner  which  was 
almost  boyish.     And  his  eyes  seemed  to  be  appealing  to  her. 

"It  is  a  magnificent  piece  of  painting,"  she  forced  herself 
to  say. 

But  she  said  it  coldly,  reluctantly. 

"Then  I  am  not  wrong." 

He  looked  pleased. 

"My  eye  is  not  very  educated.  I  fear  to  express  my  opinion 
before  people  such  as  you" — he  looked  towards  Garstin,  and 
added — "and  you,  Dick  Garstin." 

And  then  he  turned  away  from  the  picture  with  the  manner 
of  a  man  who  had  done  with  it.  She  was  amazed  at  his 
coolness,  his  perfect  ease  of  manner. 

"May  I  ask  for  a  cigar,  Dick  Garstin?"  he  said. 

"Pardon!"  said  Garstin  gruffly. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  noticed  that  he  seemed  very  ill  at  ease.  His 
rough  self-possession  had  deserted  him.  He  looked  almost  shy 
and  awkward.  Before  going  to  the  cabinet  he  went  to  the  easel 
and  noisily  wheeled  it  away.  Then  he  fetched  the  cigar  and 
poured  out  a  drink  for  Arabian. 

"Light  up,  old  chap!     Have  a  drink!" 

There  was  surely  reluctant  admiration  in  his  voice. 

Arabian  accepted  the  drink,  lit  the  cigar,  sat  down,  and  be- 
gan to  talk  about  his  flat.  At  that  moment  he  dominated  them 
both.  Miss  Van  Tuyn  felt  it.  He  talked  much  more  than 
she  had  ever  before  heard  him  talk  in  the  studio,  and  expressed 
himself  better,  with  more  fluency  than  usual.  Garstin  said  very 
little.  There  was  a  fixed  flush  on  his  cheek-bones  and  an 
angry  light  in  his  eyes.  He  sat  watching  Arabian  with  a  hostile, 
and  yet  half-admiring,  scrutiny,  smoking  rapidly,  nervously, 
and  twisting  his  large  hands  about. 

Presently  Miss  Van  Tuyn  got  up  to  go. 


400  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

"Going  already?"  said  Garstin. 

"Yes,  I  must." 

"Oh,  well " 

"I  will  accompany  you,"  said  Arabian. 

She  looked  away  from  him  and  said  nothing.  Garstin  went 
with  them  downstairs  and  opened  the  door. 

"Bye-bye!"  he  said  in  a  loud  voice.  "See  you  again  soon. 
Good  luck  to  you !" 

Arabian  held  out  his  hand. 

"Good-bye." 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  nodded  without  speaking.  Garstin  shut  the 
door  noisily. 

They  walked  down  Glebe  Place  in  silence.  When  they  got 
to  the  corner  Arabian  said : 

"Are  you  in  a  hurry  to-day?" 

"No,  not  specially." 

"Shall  we  take  a  little  walk  ?    It  is  not  very  late." 

"A  walk?    Whereto?" 

"Shall  we  go  along  by  the  river?" 

She  hesitated.  She  was  torn  by  conflicting  feelings.  She 
was  very  angry  with  Garstin.  She  still  continued  to  say,  though 
now  to  herself,  "I  don't  believe  it !  I  don't  believe  it !"  And 
yet  she  knew  that  Garstin's  portrait  had  greatly  increased  her 
strange  fear  of  Arabian. 

"This  way  will  take  us  to  the  river." 

She  knew  he  was  looking  straight  at  her  though  she  did 
not  look  at  him.  At  that  moment  a  remembrance  of  Craven 
and  Camber  flashed  through  her  mind. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  said.     "But " 

"I  am  fond  of  the  river,"  he  said. 

"Yes — but  in  winter!" 

"Let  us  go.    Or  will  you  come  back  to- 


'No,  I  will  go.     I  like  it  too.    London  looks  its  best  from 
the  waterside." 

And  she  walked  on  again  with  him.  He  said  nothing  more, 
and  she  did  not  speak  till  they  had  crossed  the  broad  road 
and  were  on  the  path  by  the  dark  river,  which  flowed  at  full 
tide  under  a  heavy  blackish  grey  sky.  Then  Arabian  spoke 
again,  and  the  peculiar  softness  she  had  noticed  that  afternoon 
had  gone  out  of  his  voice. 


CHAPTER  III  DECEMBER  LOVE  401 

"I  am  fortunate,  am  I  not,"  he  said,  "to  be  the  possessor 
of  that  very  fine  picture  by  Dick  Garstin?  Many  people  would 
be  glad  to  buy  it,  I  suppose." 

"Oh,  yes !" 

"Do  you  consider  it  one  of  Dick  Garstin's  best  paintings? 
I  know  you  are  a  good  judge.  I  wish  to  hear  what  you  really 
think." 

"He  has  never  painted  anything  more  finely  that  I  have 
seen." 

"Ah!     That  is  indeed  lucky  for  me." 

"Yes." 

"I  shall  send  and  fetch  it  away." 

"Oh,  but " 

She  stopped  speaking.  She  was  startled  by  his  tone  and 
also  by  what  he  had  said.  She  glanced  at  him,  then  looked 
away  and  across  the  dark  river.  Dead  leaves  brushed  against 
her  feet  with  a  dry,  brittle  noise. 

"What  is  that  you  say,  please?" 

"I  only — I  thought  it  was  arranged  that  the  picture  was 
to  be  exhibited,"  she  said,  falteringly, 

"Oh,  no.  I  shall  not  permit  Dick  Garstin  to  exhibit  that 
picture." 

Now  intense  curiosity  was  born  in  her  and  seemed  for 
the  moment  to  submerge  her  uneasiness  and  fear. 

"But  wasn't  it  understood?"   she  said. 

"Please,  what  do  you  say  was  understood?" 

"Didn't  Mr.  Garstin  say  he  meant  to  exhibit  the  picture  and 
afterwards  give  it  to  you?" 

"But  I  say  that  I  shall  not  permit  Dick  Garstin  to  exhibit 
my  picture." 

"Why  won't  you  allow  it?"  she  asked. 

In  her  curiosity  she  was  at  last  regaining  some  of  her  usual 
self-possession.  She  scented  a  struggle  between  these  two 
men,  both  of  them  of  tough  fibre,  both  of  them,  she  believed, 
far  from  scrupulous,  both  of  them  likely  to  be  enormously 
energetic  and  determined  when  roused. 

"Do  you  not  know?"  he  asked. 

"No!  How  can  I  know  such  a  thing?  How  can  I  know 
what  is  in  your  mind  unless  you  tell  me?" 


402  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  sls 

"Oh,  but  I  will  tell  you  then!  I  will  not  let  Dick  Garstin 
exhibit  that  picture  because  it  is  a  lie  about  me." 

"A  lie?    How  can  that  be?" 

"A  man  can  speak  a  lie.     Is  it  not  so?" 

"Of  course." 

"Cannot  a  man  write  a  lie  ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  a  man  can  paint  a  lie.  Dick  Garstin  has  painted  a  lie 
about  me." 

"But  then— if  it  is  so " 

"Certainly  it  is  so." 

There  was  now  a  hard  sound  in  his  voice,  and,  when  she 
looked  at  him,  she  saw  that  his  face  had  changed.  The  quiet 
self-control  which  had  amazed  her  in  the  studio  was  evidently 
leaving  him.     Or  he  no  longer  cared  to  exercise  it. 

"But,  then,  do  you  wish  to  possess  the  picture?  Do  you 
wish  to  possess  a  lie?" 

"Is  it  not  right  that  I  possess  it  rather  than  someone  else?" 

"Yes,  perhaps  it  is." 

"Certainly  it  is.    I  shall  take  that  picture  away." 

"But  Dick  Garstin  intends  to  exhibit  it.  I  know  that.  I 
know  he  will  not  let  you  have  it  till  it  has  been  shown." 

"What  is  the  law  here?  I  do  not  know.  I  am  not  English. 
Can  it  be  the  law  in  England  that  one  man  should  paint 
a  wicked  portrait  of  another  man  and  that  this  other  should 
be  helpless  to  prevent  it  from  being  shown  to  all  the  world? 
Is  that  just?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  it  is." 

He  stopped  abruptly  and  stood  still  by  the  river  wall.  It 
was  a  cold  and  dreary  afternoon,  menacing  and  dark.  Few 
people  were  out  in  that  place.    She  stood  still  beside  him. 

"Miss  Van  Tuyn,"  he  said,  looking  hard  at  her  with  an 
expression  of — apparently — angry  sincerity  in  his  eyes.  "This 
happens.  I  sit  quietly  in  the  Cafe  Royal,  a  public  place.  A 
strange  man  comes  up.  Never  have  I  seen  him  before.  He 
says  himself  to  be  a  painter.  He  asks  to  paint  me — he  begs ! 
I  go  to  his  studio,  as  you  know.  I  hesitate  when  I  have 
seen  his  pictures — all  of  horrible  persons,  bad  women  and  a 
beastly  old  man.  At  last  he  persuades  me  to  be  painted, 
promising  to  give  me  the  picture  when  finished.     He  paints 


CHAPTER  III  DECEMBER  LOVE  403 

and  paints,  destroys  and  destroys.  I  am  patient.  I  give 
up  nearly  all  my  time  to  him.  I  sit  there  day  after  day 
for  hours.  At  last  he  has  painted  me.  And  when  I  look 
I  find  he  has  made  of  me  a  beast,  a  monster,  worse  than  all 
the  other  horrible  persons.  And  when  I  come  in  he  is  showing 
this  monster  to  you,  a  lady,  my  friend,  one  I  respect  and 
admire  above  all,  and  who,  perhaps,  has  thought  of  me  with 
kindness,  who  has  been  to  me  in  trouble,  to  my  flat,  who  has 
told  me  her  sorrow  and  put  trust  in  me  a^  in  none  other. 
'Here  he  is !'  says  Dick  Garstin.  'This  beast,  this  monster — 
it  is  he!  Look  at  him.  I  introduce  you  to  Nicolas  Arabian!' 
Am  I,  in  return  for  such  things,  to  say,  'All  right !  Now  take 
this  beast,  this  monster,  and  show  him  to  all  the  world  and  say, 
"There  is  Nicolas  Arabian!"'    Do  you  say  I  should  do  this?" 

"But  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"Have  you  not?" 

Her  eyes  gave  way  before  his  and  looked  down. 

"Anyhow,'  he  said,  "I  will  not  do  it.  I  have  a  will  as 
well  as  he." 

"Yes,"  she  thought.    "You  have  a  will,  a  tremendous  will." 

"To  you,"  he  said,  "I  show  what  I  would  not  show  to  him, 
that  I  have  feelings  and  that  I  am  very  much  hurt  to-day." 

"I  am  sorry.     I  told  Dick  Garstin " 

"Yes?     What?" 

"Before  you  came  I  told  him  he  ought  not  to  exhibit  the 
picture." 

"Ah !    Thank  you !    Thank  you !" 

He  smiled,  and  the  lustrously  soft  look  came  into  his  eyes. 

"A  woman — she  always  knows  what  a  man  is!"  he  said,  in 
a  low  voice. 

"It  is  cold  standing  here!"  she  said. 

She  shivered  as  she  spoke  and  looked  at  the  water. 

"We  will  go  to  my  flat,"  he  said,  with  a  sudden  air  of 
authority.    "There  is  a  big  fire  there." 

"Oh,  no,  I  can't!" 

"Why  not?    You  have  been  there." 

"Yes,  but  I  ought  not  to  have  gone.     I  am  in  mourning." 

"You  go  to  Dick  Garstin.     What  is  the  difference?" 

"People  are  so  foolish.    They  talk." 

"But  you  go  to  Dick  Garstin!" 


404  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

He  had  turned,  and  now  made  her  walk  back  by  his  side 
along  the  river  bank  among  the  whirling  leaves. 

"People  have  begun  to  talk  about  us,"  she  said,  almost 
desperately.  "That  woman,  Mrs.  Birchington,  who  lives  op- 
posite to  you — she's  a  gossip." 

"And  do  you  mind  such  people?"  he  asked,  with  an  air 
of  surprised  contempt. 

"A  girl  has  to  be  careful  what  she  does." 

As  Miss  Van  Tuyn  said  this  she  marvelled  at  her  own  con- 
ventionality. That  she  should  be  driven  to  such  banality,  she 
who  had  defied  the  opinion  of  both  Paris  and  London! 

"Please  come  once  more.    I  want  you  to  help  me." 

"I!     How  can  I  help  you?" 

"With  Dick  Garstin.  I  do  not  want  to  fight  with  that 
man.  I  am  not  what  he  thinks,  but  I  do  not  wish  to  quarrel. 
You  can  help." 

"I  don't  see  how." 

"By  the  fire  I  will  tell  you." 

"I  don't  think  I  ought  to  come." 

"What  is  life  if  it  is  always  what  ought  and  what  ought 
not?  I  do  not  go  by  that.  I  am  not  able  to  think  always 
of  that.     And  do  you  ?    Oh,  no !" 

He  cast  a  peculiar  glance  at  her,  full  of  intense  shrewdness. 
It  made  her  remember  the  Cafe  Royal  on  the  evening  of 
her  meeting  with  the  Georgians,  her  pressure  put  on  Dick 
Garstin  to  make  Arabian's  acquaintance,  her  lonely  walk  in 
the  dark  when  Arabian  had  followed  her,  her  first  visit  to 
Garstin's  studio,  her  pretended  reason  for  many  subsequent 
visits  there.  This  man  must  surely  have  understood  always 
the  motive  which  had  governed  her  in  what  she  had  done. 
His  glance  told  her  that.  It  pierced  through  her  pretences 
like  a  weapon  and  quivered  in  the  truth  of  her.  He  had  always 
understood  her.  Was  he  at  last  going  to  let  her  understand 
him?  His  eyes  seemed  to  say,  "Why  pretend  any  longer  with 
me?  You  wanted  to  know  me.  You  chose  to  know  me.  It  is 
too  late  now  to  play  the  conventional  maiden  with  me." 

It  is  too  late  now. 

Her  will  seemed  to  be  dying  out  of  her.  She  walked  on 
beside  him  mechanically.  She  knew  that  she  was  going  to 
do  what  he  wished,  that  she  was  going  to  his  flat  again;  anc? 


CHAPTER  m  DECEMBER  LOVE  405 

when  they  reached  Rose  Tree  Gardens  without  any  further 
protest  she  got  into  the  lift  with  him  and  went  up  to  his 
floor.  But  when  he  was  putting  his  latchkey  into  the  door 
the  almost  solemn  words  of  Dick  Garstin  came  back  to  her: 
"Beryl,  believe  it  or  not,  as  you  can,  that  is  Arabian!"  And 
she  hesitated.  An  intense  disinclination  to  go  into  the  flat 
struggled  with  the  intense  desire  to  yield  herself  to  Arabian's 
will.  Arabian  was  before  her  eyes,  standing  there  by  the 
opening  door,  and  Garstin's  portrait  was  before  the  eyes  of 
her  mind  in  all  its  magnificent  depravation.  Which  showed 
the  real  man  and  which  the  unreal?  Garstin  said  that  he  had 
painted  her  intuition  about  Arabian,  that  she  knew  Arabian's 
secret  and  had  conveyed  it  to  him.    Was  that  true? 

"Please!"  said  Arabian,  holding  open  the  door. 

"I  cannot  come  in,"  she  said,  in  a  dull,  low  voice. 

Beyond  the  gap  of  the  doorway  there  lay  perhaps  the  un- 
known territory  called  by  Garstin  the  underworld.  She  re- 
membered the  piercingly  shrewd  look  Arabian  had  cast  at  he^ 
by  the  river,  a  look  which  had  surely  included  her  with  him 
in  the  region  which  lies  outside  all  the  barriers.  But  she  did 
not  belong  to  that  region.  Despite  her  keen  curiosities,  her 
resolute  defiance  of  the  conventions,  her  intensely  modern  de- 
termination to  live  as  she  chose  to  live,  she  would  never  belong 
to  it.  A  horrible  longing  which  she  could  not  understand 
fought  with  the  fear  which  Garstin  that  day  had  dragged 
up  from  the  depths  of  her  to  the  surface.  But  she  now  gave 
herself  to  the  fear,  and  she  repeated  doggedly: 

"I  cannot  come  in." 

But  just  at  this  moment  her  intention  was  changed,  and  her 
subsequent  action  was  determined  for  her  by  a  trifling  event, 
one  of  those  events  which  teach  the  world  to  believe  in  Fate. 
A  door,  the  door  of  Mrs.  Birchington's  flat,  clicked  behind  her. 
Someone  was  coming  out. 

Instantly,  driven  by  the  thought  "I  mustn't  be  seen!"  Miss 
Van  Tuyn  stepped  into  Arabian's  flat.  She  expected  to  hear 
the  front  door  of  it  close  immediately  behind  her.  But  in- 
stead she  heard  Mrs.  Birchington's  high  soprano  voice  say- 
ing: 

"Oh,  how  d'you  do?    Glad  to  meet  you  again!" 

Quickly  she  opened  the  second  door  on  the  left  and  stepped 


406  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

into  Arabian's  drawing-room.  Why  had  he  been  so  slow  in 
shutting  the  front  door?  She  must  have  been  seen.  Cer- 
tainly she  had  been  seen  by  that  horrible  Minnie  Birchington. 
There  would  be  more  gossip.  It  would  be  all  over  London 
that  she  was  perpetually  in  this  man's  flat.  Why  had  not  he 
shut  the  door  directly  she  had  stepped  into  the  hall?  Her 
nervous  tension  found  momentary  relief  in  sudden  violent  anger 
against  him,  and  when  at  length  she  heard  the  door  shut, 
and  his  footstep  outside,  she  turned  roimd  to  meet  him  with 
fierce  resolution. 

"Why  did  you  do  that?'' 

"Beg  pardon !"  he  said,  gently,  and  looking  surprised, 

"Why  didn't  you  shut  the  front  door?  That — Mrs.  Birch- 
ington must  have  seen  me.     I  know  she  has  seen  me!" 

*T  had  no  time.  I  could  not  refuse  to  speak  to  her,  could  I  ? 
I  could  not  be  rude  to  a  lady." 

"But  I  didn't  wish  her  to  see  me !" 

She  was  losing  her  self-control  and  knew  it.  She  was  angry 
with  herself  as  well  as  with  him,  but  she  could  not  regain  her 
5elf-possession. 

"Why  not?"  he  said,  still  very  gently.  "What  is  the  harm? 
Are  we  doing  wrong?  I  cannot  see  it.  I  say  again,  I  had 
no  time  to  shut  the  door." 

"Did  she  see  me  ?" 

"Really  I  do  not  know." 

He  shut  the  sitting-room  door. 

"I  hope,"  he  said,  "that  you  are  not  ashamed  to  be  acquainted 
with  me." 

His  voice  sounded  hurt,  and  now  an  expression  of  acute 
vexation  had  come  into  his  face. 

"Really  after  what  has  happened  with  Dick  Garstin  to-day 
I " 


His  face  now  had  an  expression  almost  of  pain. 

"I  am  really  not  canaille/'  he  said.  "I  am  not  accustomed 
to  be  thought  of  and  treated  as  if  I  were  catmille." 

"It's  all  right,"  she  said.  "But — ^you  see  my  mourning! 
I  am  in  deep  mourning,  and  I  ought  not " 

She  stopped.  She  felt  the  uselessness  of  her  protest,  the 
ungraciousness  of  her  demeanour.    Without  another  word  she 


CHAPTER  III  DECEMBER  LOVE  407 

went  to  a  sofa  by  one  of  the  windows  and  sat  down.  He  came 
and  sat  down  beside  her. 

"I  want  you  to  help  me  about  Dick  Garstin,"  he  said. 

"How?    What  can  I  do?     I  have  no  influence  with  him." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  have.  A  lady  like  you  has  always  influence 
with  a  man." 

"Not  with  him." 

"But  I  say  you  have." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?" 

"I  want  you  to  tell  him  what  I  have  said  to  you  to-day." 

"That  you  won't  have  the  picture  exhibited?" 

"Yes." 

"He'll  only  laugh." 

"Beg  him  for  your  sake  to  yield." 

"But  what  have  I  to  do  with  it?" 

"Very  much,  I  think.  It  will  be  better  that  he  yields — 
really." 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his. 

"We  do  not  want  a  scandal,  do  we?" 

"But " 

"If  it  should  come  to  a  fight  between  Dick  Garstin  and  me 
there  might  be  a  scandal." 

"But  my  name  wouldn't " 

Again  she  was  silent. 

"I  might  try.     But  it  wouldn't  be  any  use." 

He  put  out  a  hand  and  took  one  of  hers. 

"But  it  all  came  through  you.    Didn't  it?" 

"But — but  you  said  you  had  never  seen  Dick  Garstin  till 
he  came  up  and  asked  you  to  sit  to  him." 

"That  was  not  true.  I  saw  him  with  you  that  night  at  the 
Cafe  Royal.  That  is  why  I  came  to  the  studio.  I  knew  I 
should  meet  you  there.     And — ^you  knew." 

Again  the  terribly  shrewd  glance  came  into  his  eyes.  She 
saw  it  and  felt  no  strength  for  denial.  From  the  first  he 
must  have  thoroughly  understood  her. 

"You  and  I,  we  are  not  babies,"  he  said  gently.  "We  wanted 
to  know  each  other,  and  so  it  happened.  I  have  done  all  this 
for  you.     Now  I  ask  you  to  tell  Dick  Garstin  for  me." 

"I'll  do  what  I  can,"  she  said. 

He  pressed  her  hand  softly. 


408  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

"You  are  not  one  of  those  who  are  afraid,"  he  said.  "You 
do  what  you  choose — even  at  night." 

She  thought  of  the  episode  in  Shaftesbury  Avenue. 

"Then  you — you " 

"But  I  do  not  need  to  take  a  shiUing  from  a  lady!" 

"You  didn't  know  me  that  night !"  she  said  defiantly. 

"Ah,  but  when  I  heard  you  speak  in  the  studio  I  knew!" 

"And  you  follow  women  like  that  at  night!" 

She  tried  to  draw  away  her  hand,  but  he  would  not  let 
her. 

"You  drew  me  after  you — not  knowing.  It  was  what  they 
call  occult." 

"Then  why  did  you  go  away?" 

"I  felt  I  had  been  wrong,  that  you  didn't  wish  me  to  speak 
to  you." 

"Do  you  mean  that  when  I — that  you  suspected  what  I 
was?" 

"Something  said  to  me,  'This  is  a  lady.  She  does  strange 
things,  she  is  not  like  others,  but  she  is  a  lady.     Go  away.' " 

"And  in  the  studio " 

"When  you  spoke  I  knew," 

She  felt  degraded.  She  could  not  explain.  And  she  felt 
confused.  She  did  not  understand  this  man.  His  curious 
reticence  that  night,  after  his  audacity,  was  inexplicable  to 
her.    What  could  he  think  of  her?    What  must  he  think? 

"I  was  going  out  that  night  to  dine  in  a  restaurant  in  Soho 
with  some  friends,"  she  said,  trying  to  speak  very  naturally 
"I  wanted  some  fresh  air,  so  I  walked." 

"Why  not?  I  beg  you  to  forgive  me  for  my  rudeness.  I 
feel  very  ashamed  of  it  now.  I  have  learnt  in  all  these  days 
to  respect  you  very  much." 

His  voice  sounded  so  earnest,  so  sincere,  that  she  felt  sud- 
denly a  sense  of  relief.  After  all,  he  had  always  treated 
her  with  respect.  He  had  never  been  impertinent,  or  even 
really  audacious,  and  yet  he  had  always  known  that  she  had 
wanted  to  meet  him,  that  she  had  meant  to  meet  him!  He 
had  never  taken  advantage  of  that  knowledge.  If  he  were 
really  what  Dick  Garstin  said  he  was,  surely  he  would  have 
acted  differently. 

"Do  you  really  respect  me?"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  m  DECEMBER  LOVE  409 

"Yes.  Have  I  not  shown  it  in  all  these  days?  Have  I 
ever  done  anything  a  lady  could  object  to?" 

"No." 

Her  hand  still  lay  in  his,  and  his  touch  had  aroused  in  her 
that  strange  and  intense  desire  to  belong  to  him  which  seemed 
a  desire  entirely  of  the  body,  something  with  which  the  mind 
had  little  or  nothing  to  do. 

"Are  you  evil  ?"  her  eyes  were  asking  him. 

And  his  eyes,  looking  straight  down  into  hers,  seemed  steadily 
and  simply  to  deny  it. 

"Do  you  believe  the  lie  of  Dick  Garstin?"  they  said  to  her. 

And  she  no  longer  knew  whether  she  believed  it  or  not. 

He  drew  a  little  nearer  to  her. 

"I  respect  you — yes,"  he  said.  "But  that  is  not  all.  I  have 
another  feeling  for  you.  I  have  had  it  ever  since  I  first  saw 
you  that  night,  when  I  was  standing  by  the  door  in  the  Cafe 
Royal  and  you  looked  at  me." 

"But— but  you " 

"Yes?" 

Her  lips  trembled.     Again  jealousy  seized  her. 

"I  saw  you  that  night  in  Conduit  Street,"  she  said.  "You 
thought  I  didn't,  but  I  did." 

He  still  looked  perfectly  calm  and  untroubled. 

"You  were  dining  with  Dick  Garstin.    May  I  not  dine  with 


someone 


"Then  why  did  you  leave  the  restaurant?" 

"I  did  not  want  you  to  see  me." 

"Ah !" 

"I  thought  you  might  not  understand." 

"I  do  understand.    I  understand  perfectly !" 

She  drew  her  hand  sharply  away  from  his. 

"Are  you  angry  with  me?" 

"Angry  ?    No !    What  does  it  matter  to  me  ?" 

"I  am  a  man.  I  live  alone.  My  life  is  lonely.  Must  I 
give  up  everything  before  I  know  that  some  day  I  shall  have 
the  only  thing  I  really  wish?  You  know  men.  You  know 
how  we  are.  I  do  not  defend.  I  only  say  that  I  am  no 
better  than  the  other  men.  I  want  to  be  happy.  If  that  is 
not  for  me,  then  I  want  to  make  the  time  pass.     I  do  not 


410  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

pretend.  Men  generally  pretend  very  much  to  beautiful  girla 
But  you  would  not  believe  such  nonsense." 

"Then  why  didn't  you  stay  in  the  restaurant?" 

"Because  I  thought  to  do  that  would  be  like  an  insult  for 
you.  Such  girls  as  that — mud — they  must  not  come  into  your 
life  even  by  chance,  even  for  a  few  minutes.  No  man  wishes 
to  show  himself  with  mud  to  a  lady  he  respects.  I  tell  you 
just  the  truth." 

"Have  you — have  you  seen  her  again?" 

"She  is  in  Paris.  She  has  been  in  Paris  for  many  days. 
But  she  is  nothing.    Why  speak  of  such  people?" 

"I  don't  know.     But  I  hate " 

She  moved  restlessly.  Then  she  got  up  and  went  to  the 
fire.  He  followed  her.  She  could  not  understand  her  own 
jealousy.  It  humiliated  her  as  she  had  never  been  humiliated 
before.  She  felt  jealous  of  this  man's  absolute  freedom,  of 
his  past.  A  sort  of  rage  possessed  her  when  she  thought  of 
all  the  experiences  he  must  certainly  have  had.  She  almost 
hated  him  for  those  experiences.  She  wished  she  could  lay 
hands  on  them,  tear  them  out  of  him,  so  that  he  should  not 
have  them  any  longer  in  memory's  treasury.  And  yet  she  knew 
that,  without  them,  he  would  probably  attract  her  much  less. 

"Do  you  care  then?"  he  said. 

"Care?" 

"Do  you  care  what  I  do?" 

"No,  of  course  not!" 

"But — you  do  care!"  he  said. 

He  said  it  without  any  triumph  of  the  male,  quite  simply, 
almost  as  a  boy  might  have  said  it. 

"You  do  care!"  he  repeated. 

And  very  gently,  slowly,  he  put  his  arm  round  her,  drew 
her  close  to  him,  bent  down  and  gave  her  a  long  kiss. 

For  a  moment  she  shut  her  eyes.  She  was  giving  herself 
up  entirely  to  physical  sensation.  Fear,  thought,  everything 
except  bodily  feeling,  seemed  to  cease  in  her  entirely  at  that 
moment.  Some  fascination  which  he  possessed,  an  intense 
fascination  for  women,  entirely  mysterious  and  inexplicable, 
a  thing  rooted  in  the  body,  absolutely  overpowered  her  at  that 
moment. 


CHAPTER  II.  DECEMBER  LOVE  411 

It  was  he  who  broke  the  physical  spell.  He  lifted  his  lips 
from  hers  and  she  heard  the  words : 

"I  want  you  to  marry  me.    Will  you?" 

Instantly  she  was  released.  A  flood  of  thoughts,  doubts, 
wonderings,   flowed  through  her.     She  felt  terribly  startled. 

Marriage  with  this  man!  Marriage  with  Nicolas  Arabian! 
In  all  her  thoughts  of  him  she  had  never  included  the  thought 
of  marriage.  Yet  she  had  imagined  many  situations  in  which 
he  and  she  played  their  parts.  Wild  dreams  had  come  to  her 
in  sleepless  nights,  the  dreams  that  visit  women  who  are 
awake  under  fascination.  She  had  lived  through  romances 
with  him.  She  had  been  with  him  in  strange  places,  had 
travelled  with  him  in  sandy  wastes,  seen  the  night  come  with 
him  in  remote  corners  of  the  earth,  stood  with  him  in  great 
cities,  watched  the  sea  waves  slipping  away  with  him  on  the 
decks  of  Atlantic  liners.  All  this  she  had  done  in  imagination 
with  him.    But  never  had  she  seen  herself  as  his  wife. 

To  be  the  wife  of  Arabian! 

He  let  her  go  directly  he  felt  the  surprise  in  her  body. 

"Marry  you!"  she  said. 

"It  could  not  be  anything  else,"  he  said,  very  simply.  "Could 
it?" 

She  flushed  as  if  he  had  punished  her  by  his  respect  for  her. 

"But — ^but  we  scarcely  know  each  other!"  she  stammered. 

"You  say  that  now!" 

Again  she  felt  rebuked,  as  if  she  were  lighter  than  he  and 
as  if  he  were  surprised  by  her  lightness. 

"But  we  are  only — I  mean " 

"Let  us  not  talk  of  it  then  now  if  you  dislike.  But  I 
cannot  take  such  a  thing  any  way  but  seriously,  knowing  what 
you  are.  I  love  you ;  I  would  follow  you  anywhere.  Naturally, 
therefore,  I  must  think  of  marriage  with  you,  or  that  I  am 
to  have  nothing." 

He  stopped.    She  said  nothing;  could  not  say  anything. 

"With  light  women  one  is  light.  I  do  not  pretend  to  be 
a  very  good  man,  better  than  the  others.  Those  so  very  good 
men,  I  do  not  believe  in  them  very  much.  But  I  know  that 
many  women  are  good.  Just  at  first,  let  me  confess,  I  was 
not  sure  how  you  were.  At  the  Cafe  Royal  that  night,  seeing 
you  with  all  those  funny  people,  I  made  a  mistake.    I  thought, 


412  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

'She  is  beautiful.  She  is  audacious.  She  likes  adventures. 
She  wishes  an  adventure  with  me.'  And  I  came  to  Dick 
Garstin's  thinking  of  an  adventure.  But  soon  I  knew — 
no !  I  heard  you  talk.  I  got  to  know  your  cultivation,  your 
very  fine  mind.  And  then  you  held  back  from  me,  waiting 
till  you  should  know  me  better.  That  pleased  me.  It  taught 
me  the  value  of  you.  And  when  at  last  you  did  not  hold 
back,  were  willing  to  be  alone  with  me,  to  lunch  with  me, 
to  walk  with  me,  I  understood  you  had  made  up  your  mind : 
'He  is  all  right !'  But,  best  of  all,  you  at  last  asked  me 
to  your  hotel,  introduced  me  to  the  dear  lady  you  live  with. 
I  understood  what  was  in  your  mind:  'She  must  know  him, 
too,  my  dear  Mademoiselle  Cronin.  She,  too,  must  be  satisfied.' 
Then  I  knew  it  was  not  an  adventure.  And  when  you  told 
me  first  about  your  sorrow !  Ah !  That  was  the  great  day 
for  me!  I  knew  you  would  not  have  told  such  a  thing,  kept 
from  even  Dick  Garstin,  unless  you  put  me  in  your  mind  away 
from  the  others.    That  was  a  very  great  day  for  me!" 

She  shivered  slightly  by  the  fire.  He  was  telling  her  things. 
She  could  not  in  return  tell  him  the  truth  of  herself.  Per- 
haps he  really  believed  all  he  had  just  said.  And  yet  that 
shrewd  glance  he  had  given  her  by  the  river  and  again  in 
that  room !  What  had  it  meant  if  now  he  had  spoken  the 
truth  ? 

"I  knew  then  that  you  cared,"  he  said,  quietly  and  with 
earnest  conviction.  "I  knew  then  that  some  day  I  could  ask 
you  to  marry  me.  Anything  else — it  is  impossible  between 
you  and  me." 

"Yes,  of  course!     I  never — you  mustn't  suppose " 

"I  do  not  suppose.     I  know  you  as  now  you  know  me." 

He  did  not  touch  her  again,  though,  of  course,  he  must  know 
— any  man  must  have  known  by  this  time — his  physical  power 
to  charm,  even  to  overwhelm  her.  His  power  over  himself 
amazed  her.  It  proved  to  her  the  strength  in  his  character. 
The  man  was  strong,  and  in  two  ways.  She  worshipped 
strength,  but  his  still  made  her  afraid. 

"Now  let  us  leave  it,"  he  said,  with  a  change  of  manner. 
"It  is  getting  dark.  It  is  dreary  outside.  I  will  shut  the 
curtains.     I  will  sing  to  you  in  the  firelight." 

He  went  over  to  the  windows,  drew  down  the  blinds,  pulled 


CHAPTER  in  DECEMBER  LOVE  413 

forward  the  curtains.  She  watched  him,  sitting  motionless, 
wondering  at  herself  and  at  him.  For  the  moment  he  was 
certainly  her  master.  He  governed  her  as  much  by  what 
he  did  not  do  as  by  what  he  did.  And  it  had  always  been 
so  ever  since  she  had  known  him.  The  assurance  in  his 
quiet  was  enormous.  How  many  things  he  must  have  carried 
through  in  his  life,  that  life  of  which  she  knew  absolutely 
nothing !  But  this — would  he  carry  through  this  ?  She  tried 
to  tell  herself  with  certainty  that  he  would  not.  And  yet,  as 
she  looked  at  him,  she  was  not  sure.  Will  can  drown  will. 
Great  power  can  overcome  lesser  power,  mysteriously  some- 
times, but  certainly.  That  play  of  which  she  had  read  an 
account  in  the  Westminster  Gazette  was  founded  on  the  pos- 
sibilities, was  based  upon  a  solid  foundation.  To  the  ignorant 
it  might  seem  grotesque,  incredible  even,  but  not  to  those 
who  had  really  studied  life  and  the  eddying  currents  of  life. 
In  life,  almost  all  that  is  said  to  be  impossible  happens  at 
times,  though  perhaps  not  often.  And  who  knows,  who  can 
say  with  absolute  certainty,  that  he  or  she  is  not  an  exception, 
was  not  born  an  exception? 

As  Miss  Van  Tuyn  watched  Arabian  drawing  the  curtains 
across  the  windows  which  looked  upon  the  Thames  she  did 
not  know  positively  that  she  would  not  marry  him.  She  re- 
membered her  sensation  under  his  kiss.  It  had  been  a  sensa- 
tion of  absolute  surrender.  That  was  why  she  had  shut  her 
eyes. 

She  might  shut  her  eyes  again.  He  might  even  make  her  do 
that. 

After  the  curtains  were  drawn,  and  only  the  light  from  the 
fire  lit  up  the  room,  Arabian  went  over  to  the  piano,  a  baby 
grand,  and  sat  down  on  the  music-stool.  He  was  looking  very 
grave,  almost  romantically  grave,  but  quite  un-self -conscious. 
She  wondered  whether,  even  now,  he  cared  what  she  thought 
about  him.  He  showed  none  of  the  diffidence  of  the  not-yet- 
accepted  lover,  eager  to  please,  anxious  about  the  future.  But 
he  showed  nothing  of  triumph.  The  firelight  played  over 
his  face  as  he  struck  a  few  chords.  She  wondered  whether 
his  manservant  was  with  them  in  the  flat,  or  whether  they  were 
quite  alone — shut  in  together.  He  had  not  offered  her  tea. 
Perhaps  the  man  had  gone  out.     She  did  not  feel  afraid  of 


414  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

Arabian  at  this  moment.  After  what  he  had  said  she  knew 
she  had  no  reason  to  be  afraid  of  him  just  now.  But  if  she 
gave  herself  to  him,  if  they  ever  were  married?  How  would 
it  be  then?  Life  with  him  would  surely  be  an  extraordinary 
business.  She  remembered  her  solicitude  about  not  being  seen 
with  him  in  public  places.  Already  that  seemed  long  ago.  Dick 
Garstin  had  told  her  she  had  travelled.  No  doubt  that  was 
true.  One  may  travel  far  perhaps  in  mind  and  in  feeling 
without  being  self-consciously  aware  of  it.  But  when  one 
was  aware,  when  one  knew,  it  must  surely  be  possible  to 
stop.  He  had  made  to  her  a  tremendous  suggestion.  She 
could  refuse  to  entertain  it.  And  when  she  refused,  if  she 
did  refuse,  what  would  happen?  What  would  he  say,  do, 
when  he  realized  her  determination  ?  How  would  he  take  a 
determined  refusal?  She  could  not  imagine.  But  she  knew 
that  she  could  not  imagine  Arabian  ever  yielding  his  will  to 
hers  in  any  big  matter  which  would  seriously  upset  his  life. 

"Now.  shall  I  sing  to  you?"  he  said,  fixing  his  eyes  upon 
her. 

"Yes,  please  do,"  she  answered,  looking  away  from  him 
into  the  fire. 

"You  know  how  I  sing.  I  am  not  a  musician  of  cultivation, 
but  I  have  music  in  me.  I  have  always  had  it.  I  have  always 
sung,  even  as  a  boy.  It  is  natural  to  me.  But  I  have  been 
very  idle  in  my  life.     I  have  never  been  able  to  work,  alas !" 

She  looked  at  him  again.  Always  he  was  playing  softly, 
improvising. 

"Have  you  really  never  done  any  work?" 

"Never.  Unfortunately,  perhaps,  I  have  always  had  enough 
money  to  be  idle." 

"He's  not  poor!"  she  thought. 

And  then  she  felt  glad,  suddenly  remembering  how  rich  she 
was  now,  since  the  death  of  her  father. 

He  said  nothing  more,  but  played  a  short  prelude  and  be- 
gan to  sing  in  his  sniall,  but  warm,  tenor  voice.  And,  sitting 
there  by  the  fire,  she  watched  him  while  he  sang,  and  wondered 
again,  as  she  had  wondered  in  the  studio,  at  the  musical 
sense  that  was  in  him  and  that  could  show  itself  so  easily 
and  completely,  without  apparently  any  strong  effort.  The 
fascination  she  felt  in  him  filled  all  his  music,  and  appealed 


CHAPTER  III  DECEMBER  LOVE  416 

not  only  to  her  senses  but  to  her  musical  understanding.  She 
had  a  genuine  passion  for  the  right  in  all  the  arts,  for  the 
inevitable  word  in  literature,  the  inevitable  touch  of  colour 
that  lights  up  a  painting,  fusing  the  whole  into  harmony,  the 
inevitable  emotional  colouring  of  a  musical  phrase,  the  slacken- 
ing or  quickening  of  time,  which  make  a  song  exactly  what 
it  should  be.  And  to  that  passion  he  was  able  to  appeal  with 
his  gift.  He  sang  two  Italian  songs,  and  she  felt  Italy  in 
them.  Then  he  sang  in  French,  and  finally  in  Spanish — 
guitar  songs.  And  presently  she  gave  herself  entirely  to  him 
as  a  singer.  He  had  temperament,  and  she  loved  that.  It 
meant,  perhaps,  too  much  to  her.  That,  no  doubt,  was  what 
drew  her  to  him  more  surely  than  his  remarkable  physical 
beauty — temperament  which  has  the  keys  of  so  many  doors, 
and  can  open  them  at  will,  showing  glimpses  of  wonderful 
rooms,  and  of  gardens  bathed  in  sunshine  or  steeped  in  mys- 
terious twilight,  and  of  savage  wastes,  the  wilderness,  the 
windy  tracts  by  the  sea,  landscapes  in  snow,  autumn  breathing 
in  mist;  temperament  which  can  even  simulate  knowledge,  and 
can  rouse  all  the  under-longings  which  so  often  lie  sleeping 
and  unknown  in  women. 

"With  that  man  I  could  never  be  dull!" 

That  thought  slipped  through  her  while  she  listened.  Where 
did  he  come  from?  In  how  many  lands  had  he  lived?  How 
had  his  life  been  passed?  She  ought  to  know.  Perhaps  some 
day  he  would  tell  her.  He  must  surely  tell  her.  One  cannot 
do  great  things  which  aflfect  one's  life  in  the  dark. 

Dark — that's  his  word!  When  had  she  thought  that?  She 
remembered.  It  had  been  in  that  room.  And  since  then  she 
had   seen  Garstin's  terrible  portrait. 

But  he  was  like  a  palm  tree  singing.  Even  Garstin  had 
been  forced  to  say  that  of  him. 

When  at  last  he  stopped  all  the  artistic  part  of  her  was 
under  his  spell.  He  had,  perhaps  deliberately,  perhaps  at 
haphazard — she  could  not  tell — aroused  in  her  a  great  long- 
ing for  multifarious  experiences  such  as  she  had  never  yet 
suffered  under  or  enjoyed.  He  had  let  her  recklessness  loose 
from  its  tethering  chain.  Was  she  just  then  the  same  woman 
who  a  short  time  ago  had  feared  Minnie  Birchington's  curious 
eyes  ?    She  could  scarcely  believe  it. 


416  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

He  got  up  from  the  piano.  She  too  got  up.  He  came  up 
to  her,  put  his  hands  on  her  shoulders  gently,  pressed  them, 
contracting  his  strong  brown  fingers,  and  said,  looking  down 
into  her  eyes : 

"How  beautiful  you  are!  Mon  Dieu!  how  beautiful  you 
are!" 

And  her  vanity  was  gratified  as  it  had  never  been  gratified 
before  by  all  the  compliments  she  had  received,  by  all  the  long- 
ings she  had  aroused  in  men. 

Still  holding  her  shoulders  he  said : 

"Do  something  for  me  to-night." 

"What  is  it?    What  do  you  want?" 

"Oh,  only  a  very  simple  thing." 

She  felt  disappointed,  but  she  said  nothing. 

"Let  us  dine  together  to-night!  Afterwards  I  will  take 
you  to  your  hotel  and  leave  you  to  think." 

He  smiled  down  at  her. 

"I  am  no  longer  afraid  to  let  you  think.     Will  you  come?" 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"Where  was  it  you  were  walking  to  that  night  when  I  was 
so  rude  as  to  follow  after  you?" 

"To  a  restaurant  in  Soho." 

"Yes?" 

"To  the  Bella  Napoli." 

"Napoli!" 

He  half  shut  his  eyes. 

"I  love  Naples.     Is  it  Italian?" 

"Yes." 

"Really  Italian?" 

"Yes." 

"Let  us  go  there.  And  before  we  go  I  will  sing  you  a 
street  song  of  Naples." 

"You — you  are  not  a  Neapolitan  ?"  she  asked. 

"No.  I  come  from  South  America.  But  I  know  Naples 
very,  very  well.    Listen!" 

And,  almost  laughing,  and  looking  suddenly  buffo,  he  spoke 
a  few  sentences  in  the  Neapolitan  patois. 

"Ah,  they  are  rascals  there !  But  one  forgives  them  because 
they  are  happy  in  their  naughtiness,  or  at  any  rate  they  seem 
happy.     And  there  is  nothing  like  happiness  for  getting  for- 


CHAPTER  III  DECEMBER  LOVE  417 

giveness.     We  will  be  happy  to-night,  and  we  shall  get  for- 
given.   We  will  go  to  the  Bella  Napoli." 

She  did  not  say  "yes"  or  "no."  She  was  thinking  at  that 
moment  of  Craven  and  Adela  Sellingworth.  It  was  just 
possible  that  they  might  be  there.  But  if  they  were?  What 
did  it  matter?  Minnie  Birchington  had  seen  her  with  Arabian. 
Lady  Archie  Brooke  had  seen  her.  Craven  had  seen  her.  And 
why  should  she  be  ashamed.  Ought  and  ought  not !  Had  she 
ever  been  governed   in   her  life  and   her  doing  by   fear  of 


opmion 


"Do  you  say  yes?"  he  asked.  "Or  must  you  go  back  to 
dear  Mademoiselle  Cronin?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Then  what  do  you  say?" 

"Yes,  I'll  go  there  with  you,"  she  answered. 

But  there  was  a  sound  of  defiance  in  her  voice,  and  at  that 
moment  she  had  a  feeling  that  she  was  going  to  do  something 
more  decisively  unconventional,  even  more  dangerous,  than 
she  had  ever  yet  done. 

If  they  were  there!  She  remembered  Craven's  look  at 
Arabian.  She  remembered,  too,  the  change  in  Arabian's  face 
as  Craven  had  passed  them. 

But  Craven  had  gone  back  to  Adela  Sellingworth.  Arabian, 
perhaps,  had  been  the  cause  of  that  return. 

"Why  do  you  look  like  that?    What  are  you  thinking  of?" 

"Naples,"  she  said. 

"I  will  sing  you  that  street  song.  And  then,  presently,  we 
will  go.  I  know  we  must  not  be  too  late,  or  your  dear  Made- 
moiselle Cronin  will  be  frightened  about  you." 

He  left  her,  and  went  once  more  to  the  piano. 


CHAPTER  IV 

ABOUT  seven  o'clock  that  evening  Lady  Sellingworth  was 
sitting  alone  in  her  drawing-room.  Sir  Seymour  Portman 
had  been  with  her  for  an  hour  and  had  left  her  at  half- 
past  six,  believing  that  she  was  going  to  spend  one  of  her 
usual  solitary  evenings,  probably  with  a  book  by  the  fire.  He 
would  gladly,  even  thankfully,  have  stayed  to  keep  her  com- 
pany. But  no  suggestion  of  that  kind  had  been  made  to  him. 
And,  beyond  calling  regularly  at  the  hour  when  he  believed 
that  he  was  welcome,  he  never  pressed  his  company  upon  his 
dearly  loved  friend.  Even  in  his  great  affection  he  preserved 
a  certain  ceremoniousness.  Even  in  his  love  he  never  took 
a  liberty.  In  modern  days  he  still  held  to  the  reserve  of  the 
very  great  gentleman,  old-fashioned  perhaps  now,  but  never- 
theless precious  in  his  sight. 

He  would  have  been  not  a  little  surprised  had  he  been  able 
to  see  his  Adela  at  this  moment. 

She  had  changed  the  plain  black  gown  in  which  she  had 
received  him,  and  was  dressed  in  dark  red  velvet.  She  wore 
a  black  hat.  Two  big  rubies  gleamed  in  her  ears,  and  there 
was  another,  surrounded  with  diamonds,  at  her  throat.  Her 
gown  was  trimmed  with  an  edging  of  some  dark  fur.  As  usual, 
her  hands  were  covered  by  loose  white  gloves.  She  was  shod 
for  walking  out.  Her  eyebrows  had  been  carefully  darkened. 
There  was  some  artificial  red  on  her  lips.  Her  white  hair 
was  fluffed  out  under  the  hat  brim,  and  looked  very  thick 
and  vital.  Her  white  skin  was  smooth  and  even.  Her  eyes 
shone,  as  Cecile  had  just  told  her,  "comme  deux  lampes." 
She  was  a  striking  figure  as  she  sat  on  her  sofa  very  upright 
near  a  lamp,  holding  a  book  in  her  hand.  She  even  looked 
very  handsome  and,  of  course,  very  distinguished.  But  her 
face  was  anxious,  her  bright  eyes  were  uneasy,  and  there  was 
a  perceptible  stamp  of  artificiality  upon  her.    A  woman  would 

418 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  419 

have  noticed  it  instantly.  Even  an  observant  man  would  prob- 
ably not  have  missed  it. 

She  seemed  to  be  reading  at  first,  and  presently  there  was 
a  faint  rustle.  She  had  turned  a  page.  But  soon  she  put 
the  book  down  in  her  lap,  still  keeping  her  hand  on  it,  and 
sat  looking  about  the  room.  The  clock  chimed  seven.  She 
moved  and  sighed.  Then  again  she  sat  very  still,  like  one 
listening.  After  a  while  she  lifted  the  book,  glanced  at  it 
again,  and  then  put  it  down,  got  up  and  went  to  the  fireplace. 
She  turned  on  the  lights  there,  leaned  forward  and  looked 
into  the  glass.  Her  face  became  stern  with  intentness  when 
she  did  that.  She  put  up  a  hand  to  her  hair,  turned  her 
head  a  little  to  one  side,  smiled  faintly,  then  a  little  more, 
again  looked  grave,  then  earnest.  Finally  she  put  both  her 
hands  on  the  mantelpiece,  grasped  it  and  stared  into  the  glass. 

In  that  moment  she  was  feeling  afraid. 

She  had  arranged  to  dine  with  Alick  Craven  once  more  at 
the  Bella  Napoli.  He  would  come  for  her  in  a  few  minutes. 
She  was  wondering  very  much  how  exactly  she  would  appear 
to  him,  how  old,  how  good-looking — or  plain.  She  had  tried, 
with  Cecile's  help,  to  look  her  very  best.  Cecile  had  declared 
the  result  a  success.  "Miladi  est  merveilleusement  belle  ce  soir, 
mms  vraiment  belle!"  But  a  maid,  of  course,  would  not  scruple 
to  lie  about  such  a  matter.  One  could  not  depend  on  a  maid's 
word.  She  was  in  love  with  Alick  Craven,  desperately  in 
love  as  only  an  elderly  woman  can  be  with  a  man  much  younger 
than  herself.    And  that  love  made  her  afraid. 

There  was  a  tiny  mole  on  her  face,  near  the  mouth.  She 
wished  she  had  had  it  removed  in  Geneva.  Why  had  not  she 
had  that  done?  No  doubt  because  she  was  so  accustomed  to 
it  that  for  years  she  had  never  thought  of  it,  had  never  even 
seen  it.  Now  suddenly  she  saw  it,  and  it  seemed  to  her  notice- 
able, an  ugly  blemish.  Anyone  who  looked  at  her  must  surely 
look  at  it,  think  of  it.  For  a  moment  she  felt  desperate 
about  it,  and  her  whole  body  was  suddenly  hot  as  if  a  flame 
went  over  it.  Then  the  mocking  look  came  into  her  eyes. 
She  was  trying  to  summon  up  cynicism,  was  trying  to  laugh 
at  herself. 

"He  doesn't  think  of  me  in  that  way!  No  man  will  ever 
think  of  me  in  that  way  again !" 


420  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

But  the  mocking  expression  died  out  and  the  fear  did  not 
go.  She  was  afraid  of  Craven's  young  eyes.  It  was  terrible 
to  feel  so  humble,  so  full  of  trembling  diffidence.  Oh,  for 
a  moment  of  the  conquering  sensation  she  had  sometimes  known 
in  the  years  long  ago  when  men  had  made  her  aware  of  her 
power ! 

Since  their  meeting  in  Dindie  Ackroyde's  drawing-room  her 
friendship  with  Craven,  renewed,  had  grown  into  something 
like  intimacy.  But  there  was  an  uneasiness  in  it  which  she 
felt  acutely.  There  were  humbug  and  fear  in  this  friendship. 
Because  she  was  desperately  in  love  she  was  forced  to  be 
insincere  with  Craven.  Haunted  perpetually  by  the  fear  of 
losing  what  she  had,  the  liking  of  a  man  who  was  not,  and 
could  never  be,  in  love  with  her,  she  had  to  give  Craven  the 
impression  that  she  was  beyond  the  age  of  love,  that  the 
sensations  of  love  were  dead  in  her  beyond  hope  of  resurrec- 
tion. She  had  to  play  at  detachment  when  her  one  desire 
was  to  absorb  and  to  be  absorbed,  had  to  sustain  an  appearance 
of  physical  coldness  while  she  was  burning  with  physical  fever. 
She  had  to  create  a  false  atmosphere  about  her,  and  to  do  it 
so  cleverly  that  it  seemed  absolutely  genuine,  the  emanation 
of  her  personality  in  unstudied  naturalness. 

Her  lack  of  all  affection  helped  her  to  deceive.  Though 
at  moments  she  might  seem  constrained,  oddly  remote,  frigidly 
detached,  she  was  never  affected.  Now  and  then  Craven  had 
wondered  about  her,  but  he  had  never  guessed  that  she  was 
acting  a  part.  The  charm  of  her  was  still  active  about  him, 
and  it  was  the  charm  of  apparent  sincerity.  To  him  so  fat 
the  false  atmosphere  seemed  real,  and  he  was  not  aware  of 
the  fear. 

Lady  Sellingworth  feared  being  found  out  by  Craven,  and 
feared  what  might  happen  if  he  found  out  that  she  was  in 
love  with  him.  She  feared  her  age  and  the  addition  each 
passing  day  made  to  it.  She  feared  her  natural  appearance, 
and  now  strove  to  conceal  it  as  much  as  possible  without  being 
unskilful  or  blatant.    And  she  feared  the  future  terribly. 

For  Time  galloped  now.  She  often  felt  herself  rushing  to- 
wards the  abyss  of  the  'seventies. 

The  worst  of  it  all  was  that  in  humbug  she  was  never  at 
ease.     Instead  of,   like   many   women,   living   comfortably   in 


cHAPTKR  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  421 

insincerity,  she  longed  to  be  sincere.  To  love  as  she  did  and 
be  insincere  was  abominable  to  her.  To  her  insincerity  now 
seemed  to  be  the  direct  contradiction  of  love.  Often  when  she 
was  deceiving  Alick  Craven  she  felt  almost  criminal.  Perhaps 
if  she  had  been  much  younger  she  might  not  have  been  so 
troubled  in  the  soul  by  the  necessity  for  constant  pretence.  But 
to  those  who  are  of  any  real  worth  the  years  bring  a  growing 
need  of  sincerity,  a  growing  hunger  which  only  true  things 
can  satisfy.    And  she  knew  that  need  and  suffered  that  hunger. 

She  was  feeling  it  now  as  she  waited  for  Craven.  She  longed 
to  be  able  to  let  him  see  her  as  she  was  and  to  be  accepted  by 
him  as  she  was.  But  he  would  not  accept  her.  She  knew 
that.  He  did  not  want  her  as  she  wanted  him.  He  was  sat- 
isfied with  things  as  they  were.  She  was  at  a  terrible  dis- 
advantage with  him,  for  she  was  in  his  power,  while  he  was 
not  in  hers.  He  could  ruin  such  happiness  as  she  now  had. 
But  she  could  not  riiin  his  happiness.  H  he  gave  her  up  she 
would  be  broken,  though  probably  no  one  would  know  it.  But 
if  she  gave  him  up  he  would  not  mind  very  much,  though  no 
doubt  his  pride  would  be  hurt.  Perhaps,  even  now,  she  was 
only  a  palliative  in  his  life.  Beryl  Van  Tuyn  had  evidently 
treated  him  badly.  He  turned  to  others  for  some  casual  con- 
solation. 

Lady  Sellingworth  often  wondered  painfully  what  Craven 
felt  about  the  American  girl.  Was  she  only  comforting  Craven, 
playing  a  sort  of  dear  old  mother's  part  to  him,?  Did  he 
come  to  her  because  he  considered  her  a  skilful  binder  up 
of  wounds?    Could  Beryl  whenever  she  chose  take  him  away? 

Lady  Sellingworth's  instinct  told  her  that  while  she  had 
been  abroad  Craven  and  Beryl  had  travelled  in  their  friendship. 
But  she  did  not  yet  know  exactly  how  far  Craven  had  gone. 
It  seemed  evident  now  that  Beryl  had  been  suddenly  diverted, 
no  doubt  by  some  strong  influence,  on  to  another  track ;  Lady 
Sellingworth  knew  that  she  and  Craven  were  no  longer  meet- 
ing. Something  had  happened  which  had  interfered  with  their 
intimacy.  Rumour  said  that  Beryl  Van  Tuyn  was  in  love  with 
another  man,  with  this  Nicolas  Arabian,  whom  nobody  knew. 
Everyone  in  the  Coombe  set  was  talking  about  it.  How  keenly 
did  Craven  feel  this  sudden  defection?    That  it  had  hurt  his 


422  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

young  pride  Lady  Sellingworth  was  certain.  But  she  was  not 
certain  whether  it  had  seriously  wounded  his  heart. 

"Am  I  a  paUiative  ?"  she  thought,  as  she  gazed  into  the  glass. 

And  then  came  the  terrible  question: 

"How  can  I  be  anything  else?" 

She  heard  the  door  opening  behind  her,  took  her  hands  from 
the  mantelpiece,  and  turned  round  quickly. 

"Mr.  Craven,  my  lady." 

"You're  all  ready?     Capital!     I  say,  am  I  late?" 

"No.    It's  only  a  little  past  seven." 

He  had  taken  her  hand.  She  longed  to  press  his,  but  she 
did  not  press  it.  He  looked  at  her,  she  thought,  rather 
curiously. 

"I've  got  a  taxi  at  the  door.  It's  rather  a  horrid  night. 
You're  not  dressed  for  walking?" 

Again  his  look  seemed  to  question  her. 

She  put  up  a  hand  to  her  face,  near  the  mouth,  nervously. 

"We  had  better  drive.  In  these  winter  evenings  walking 
isn't  very  pleasant.  We  must  be  a  little  less  Bohemian  in 
taste,  mustn't  we?" 

He  seemed  now  slightly  constrained.  His  eyes  did  not  rest 
upon  her  quite  naturally,  she  thought. 

"Shall  we  go  down?"  she  said. 

"Yes,  do  let  us." 

As  she  moved  to  go  she  looked  into  the  glass.  She  could 
not  help  doing  that.     He  noticed  it,  and  thought: 

"I  wonder  why  she  has  begun  making  her  face  up  like  this  ?" 

He  did  not  like  it.  He  preferred  her  as  she  had  been  when 
he  had  first  come  to  her  house  on  an  autumn  evening.  To 
him  there  was  something  almost  distressing  in  this  change  which 
he  noticed  specially  to-night.  And  her  look  into  the  glass 
had  shown  him  that  she  was  preoccupied  about  her  appear- 
ance. Such  a  preoccupation  on  her  part  seemed  foreign  to  her 
character  as  he  had  conceived  of  it.  Her  greatest  charm  had 
been  her  extraordinary  lack,  or  apparent  lack,  of  all  self -con- 
sciousness. She  had  never  seemed  to  bother  about  herself,  to 
be  thinking  of  the  impression  she  was  making  on  others. 

But  she  was  certainly  looking  very  handsome. 

She  put  on  a  fur.  They  got  into  the  cab  and  drove  to 
Soho. 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  423 

Craven  had  ordered  the  table  in  the  window  to  be  reserved 
for  them.  The  restaurant  was  fairly,  but  not  quite,  full.  The 
musicians  were  in  their  accustomed  places  looking  very  Italian. 
The  lustrous  padrona  smiled  a  greeting  to  them  from  her 
counter.  Their  bright-eyed  waitress  hurried  up  and  welcomed 
them  in  Italian.  Vesuvius  erupted  at  them  from  the  walls. 
There  was  a  cozy  warmth  in  the  unpretentious  room,  an  atmos- 
phere of  careless  intimacy  and  good  fellowship. 

"Let  me  take  off  your  fur!" 

She  slipped  out  of  it,  and  he  hung  it  up  on  a  hook  among 
hats  and  coats  which  looked  as  if  they  could  never  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  it. 

"I'll  sit  with  m^  back  to  the  window,"  she  said.  She  sat 
down,  and  he  sat  on  her  left  facing  the  entrance. 

Then  the  menu  was  brought,  and  they  began  to  consult 
about  what  they  would  eat.  She  did  not  care  what  it  was, 
but  she  pretended  to  care  very  much.  To  do  that  was  part 
of  the  game.  If  only  she  could  think  of  all  this  as  a  game, 
could  take  it  lightly,  merrily!  She  resolved  to  make  a  strong 
effort  to  conquer  the  underlying  melancholy  which  had  ac- 
companied her  into  this  new  friendship,  and  which  she  could 
not  shake  off.  It  came  from  a  lost  battle,  from  a  silent  and 
great  defeat.  She  was  afraid  of  it,  for  it  was  black  and 
profound  beyond  all  plumbing.  Often  in  her  ten  years  of 
retirement  she  had  felt  melancholy.  But  this  was  a  new  sort 
of  sadness.  There  was  an  acrid  edge  to  it.  It  had  the  peculiar 
and  subtle  terror  of  a  grief  that  was  not  caused  only  by 
events,  but  also,  and  specially,  by  something  within  herself. 

"Gnocchi — ^we  must  have  gnocchi!" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"But  wait,  though!  There  are  ravioli!  It  would  hardly 
do  to  have  both,   I  suppose,  would  it?" 

"No;  they  are  too  much  alike." 

"Then  which  shall  we  have?" 

She  was  going  to  say,  "I  don't  mind !"  but  remembered  her 
role  and  said: 

"Please,   ravioli  for  me." 

And  she  believed  that  she  said  it  with  gusto,  as  if  she 
really  did  care. 

"For  me  too!"  said  Craven. 


424  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

And  he  went  on  considering  and  asking,  with  his  dark  head 
bent  over  the  menu  and  his  blue  eyes  fixed  upon  it. 

"There!  That  ought  to  be  a  nice  dinner!"  he  said,  at  last. 
"And  for  wine  Chianti,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,  Chianti  Rosso,"  she  answered,  with  the  definiteness, 
she  hoped,  of  the  epicure. 

This  small  fuss  about  what  they  were  going  to  eat  marked 
for  her  the  severing  difference  between  Craven's  mental  at- 
titude at  this  moment  and  hers.  For  him  this  little  dinner 
was  merely  a  pleasant  way  of  spending  a  casual  evening  in 
the  company  of  one  who  was  kind  to  him,  whom  he  found 
sympathetic,  whom  he  admired  probably  as  a  striking  repre- 
sentative of  an  era  that  was  past,  the  Edwardian  era.  For 
her  it  was  an  event  full  of  torment  and  joy.  The  joy  came 
from  being  alone  with  him.  But  she  was  tortured  by  yearn- 
ings which  he  knew  nothing  of.  He  was  able  to  give  himself 
out  to  her  naturally.  She  was  obliged  to  hold  herself  in,  to 
conceal  the  horrible  fact  that  she  was  obsessed  by  him,  that 
she  was  longing  to  commit  sacrifices  for  him,  to  take  him 
as  her  exclusive  possession,  to  surround  him  with  love  and 
worship.  He  wanted  from  her  what  she  was  apparently  giv- 
ing him  and  nothing  more.  She  wanted  from  him  all  that 
he  was  not  giving  her  and  would  never  give  her.  The  dinner 
would  be  a  tranquil  pleasure  for  him,  and  a  quivering  torture 
for  her,  mingled  with  some  moments  of  forgetfulness  in  which 
she  would  have  a  brief  illusion  of  happiness.  She  made  the 
comparison  and  thought  with  despair  of  the  unevenness  of 
Fate.  Meanwhile  she  was  smiling  and  praising  the  vegetable 
soup  sprinkled  with  Parmesan  cheese. 

One  of  the  musicians  came  up  to  their  table,  and  in- 
quired whether  the  signora  would  like  any  special  thing  played. 
Lady  Sellingworth  shook  her  head.  She  was  afraid  of  their 
songs  of  the  South,  and  dared  not  choose  one. 

"Anything  you  like !"  she  said. 

"They  are  all  much  the  same,"  she  added  to  Craven. 

"But  I  thought  you  were  so  fond  of  the  songs  of  Naples 
and  the  Bay.    Don't  you  remember  that  first  evening  when " 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  she  interrupted  him,  almost  sharply. 
"But  still  these  songs  are  really  all  very  much  alike.  They 
all  express  the  same  sort  of  thing — Neapolitan  desires." 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  425 

"And  not  only  Neapolitan  desires,  I  should  say,"  said  Craven. 

At  that  moment  a  hard  look  came  into  his  eyes,  a  grimness 
altered  his  mouth.  His  face  completely  changed,  evidently 
under  the  influence  of  some  sudden  and  keen  gust  of  feeling. 
He  slightly  bent  his  head,  and  the  colour  rose  in  his  cheeks. 

Lady  Sellingworth  who,  for  the  moment,  had  been  wholly 
intent  on  Craven,  now  looked  to  see  what  had  caused  this 
sudden  and  evidently  uncontrollable  exhibition  of  feeling.  She 
saw  two  people,  a  tall  girl  and  a  man,  walking  down  the  restau- 
rant towards  the  further  end.  The  girl  she  immediately 
recognized. 

"Oh— there's  Beryl !"  she  said. 

Her  heart  sank  as  she  looked  at  Craven. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

"Did  she  see  me?" 

"I  don't  know.  Probably  she  did.  But  she  seemed  in  a 
hurry." 

"Oh!     Whom  is  she  with?" 

"That  fellow  they  are  all  talking  about,  Arabian.  At  least, 
I  suppose  so.  Anyhow,  it's  the  fellow  I  saw  in  Glebe  Place. 
Ah,  there  they  go  with  Sole  mio!" 

The  musicians  were  beginning  the  melody  of  which  Italians 
never  seem  to  weary.  Lady  Sellingworth  listened  to  it  as  she 
looked  down  the  long  and  narrow  room  now  crowded  with 
people.  Beryl  Van  Tuyn  was  standing  by  a  table  near  the 
wall.  Lady  Sellingworth  saw  her  in  profile.  Her  companion 
stood  beside  her  with  his  back  to  the  room.  Lady  Selling- 
worth  noticed  that  he  was  tall  with  an  athletic  figure,  that 
he  was  broad-shouldered,  that  his  head  was  covered  with  thickly 
growing  brown  hair.  He  gave  her  the  impression  of  a  strong 
and  good-looking  man.  She  gazed  at  him  with  an  interest 
she  scarcely  understood  at  that  moment,  an  interest  surely 
more  intense  than  even  the  gossip  she  had  heard  about  him 
warranted. 

He  helped  Miss  Van  Tuyn  out  of  her  coat,  then  took  off 
his,  and  went  to  hang  them  on  a  stand  against  the  wall.  In 
doing  this  he  turned,  and  for  a  moment  showed  his  profile 
to  Lady  Sellingworth.  She  saw  the  line  of  his  brown  face, 
his  arm  raised,  his  head  slightly  thrown  back. 

So  that  was  Nicolas  Arabian,  the  man  all  the  women  in 


426  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

the  Coombe  set  were  gossiping  about !  She  could  not  see  him 
very  well.  He  was  rather  a  long  way  off,  and  two  moving 
people,  a  waitress  carr>-ing  food,  an  Italian  man  going  to 
speak  to  a  gesticulating  friend,  intervened  and  shut  him  out 
from  her  sight  while  he  was  still  arranging  the  coats.  But 
there  was  something  in  his  profile,  something  in  his  movement 
and  in  the  carriage  of  his  head  which  seemed  familiar  to 
her.  And  she  drew  her  brows  together,  wondering.  Craven 
spoke  to  her  through  the  music.  She  looked  at  him,  answered 
him.  Then  once  more  she  glanced  down  the  room.  Beryl 
and  Arabian  had  sat  down.  Beryl  was  facing  her.  Arabian 
was  at  the  side.  Lady  Sellingworth  still  saw  him  in  profile. 
He  was  talking  to  the  waitress. 

"I  am  sure  I  know  that  man's  face!"  Lady  Sellingworth 
thought 

And  she  expressed  her  thought  to  Craven. 

"If  that  is  Nicolas  Arabian  I  think  I  must  have  seen  him 
about  London,"  she  said.  "His  side  face  seems  familiar  to 
me  somehow." 

Why  would  not  Beryl  look  at  her? 

"I  wonder  whether  Beryl  saw  me  when  she  came  in,"  con- 
tinued Lady  Sellingworth.     "She  saw  you,  of  course." 

"Yes,  she  saw  me." 

From  the  sound  of  Craven's  voice,  from  the  constraint  of 
his  manner.  Lady  Sellingworth  gathered  the  knowledge  that  her| 
evening  was  spoilt.  A  few  minutes  before  she  had  been  quiver- 
ing with  anxiety,  had  been  struggling  to  conquer  the  melancholy 
which,  she  knew,  put  her  at  a  disadvantage  with  Craven,  had 
been  seized  with  despair  as  she  compared  her  fate  with  his. 
Now  she  looked  back  at  that  beginning  of  the  evening  and 
thought  of  it  as  happy.  For  Craven  had  seemed  contented 
then.  Now  he  was  obviously  restless,  ill  at  ease.  He  never 
looked  down  the  room.  He  devoted  himself  to  her.  He  talked 
even  more  than  usual.  But  she  was  aware  of  effort  in  it  all, 
and  knew  that  his  thoughts  were  with  Beryl  Van  Tuyn  and 
the  stranger  who  seemed  vaguely  familiar  to  her. 

Formerly — with  what  intensity  she  remembered,  visualized, 
the  occasions — Craven  had  been  restless  with  Beryl  Van  Tuyn 
because  he  wished  to  be  with  her;  now  he  was  restless  with 
her.    And  she  did  not  need  to  ask  herself  why. 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  427 

This  remembrance  made  her  feel  angry  in  her  despair.  Her 
hatred  of  Beryl  revived.  She  recalled  the  girl's  cruelty  to  her. 
Now  Beryl  had  been  cruel  to  Craven.  And  yet  Craven  was 
longing  after  her.  What  was  the  good  of  kindness,  of  the 
warm  heart  full  of  burning  desires  to  be  of  use,  to  comfort,  to 
bring  joy  into  a  life?  The  cruel  fascinated,  perhaps  were 
even  loved.  Men  were  bored  by  any  love  that  was  wholly  un- 
selfish. 

But  was  her  love  unselfish  ?  She  put  that  question  from  her. 
She  felt  injured,  wounded.  It  was  difficult  for  her  any  longer 
to  conceal  her  misery.  But  she  tried  to  talk  cheerfully,  nat- 
urally. She  forced  her  lips  to  smile.  She  praised  the  excel- 
lence of  the  cooking,  the  efforts  of  the  musicians. 

Nevertheless  the  conversation  presently  languished.  There 
was  no  spontaneity  in  it.  All  around  them  loud  voices  were 
talking  volubly  in  Italian.  She  glanced  from  table  to  table. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  everyone  was  feeling  happy  and  at 
ease  except  herself  and  Craven.  They  were  ill  matched.  She 
became  horribly  self-conscious.  She  felt  as  if  people  were 
looking  at  them  with  surprise,  as  if  an  undercurrent  of  ridi- 
cule was  creeping  through  the  room.  Surely  many  were  won- 
dering who  the  painted  old  woman  and  the  young  man  were, 
why  they  sat  together  in  the  corner  by  the  window !  She  saw 
one  of  the  musicians  smile  and  whisper  to  the  companion  be- 
side him,  and  felt  certain  he  was  speaking  about  her,  was  smil- 
ing at  some  ugly  thought  which  he  had  just  put  into  words. 

To  an  Italian  she  must  certainly  seem  an  old  wreck  of  a 
woman,  "una  vccchia"  an  object  of  contempt,  or  of  smiling 
pity.  She  looked  down  at  her  red  dress,  remembered  the  jewels 
in  her  ears  and  at  her  throat.  How  useless  and  absurd  were 
her  efforts  to  look  her  best!  A  terrible  phrase  of  Caroline 
Briggs  came  into  her  mind:  "I  feel  as  if  I  were  looking  at 
bones  decked  out  in  jewels."  And  again  she  was  back  in  Paris 
ten  years  ago;  again  she  saw  a  contrast  bizarre  as  the  con- 
trast she  and  Craven  now  presented  to  the  crowd  in  the  res- 
taurant. Before  the  eyes  of  her  mind  there  rose  an  old  woman 
in  a  black  wig  and  a  marvellously  handsome  young  man. 

Suddenly  a  thrill  shot  through  her.  It  was  like  a  sharp 
physical  pain,  a  sword-thrust  of  agony. 

That  profile  which  had  seemed  vaguely  familiar  to  her  just 


428  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

now,  was  not  it  like  his  profile  ?  She  tried  to  reason  with  her- 
self, to  tell  herself  that  she  was  yielding  to  a  crazy  fancy, 
brought  about  by  her  nervous  excitement  and  by  the  mental 
pain  she  was  suffering.  Many  men  slightly,  sometimes  mark- 
edly, resemble  other  men.  One  face  seen  in  profile  is  often  very 
much  like  another.  But  the  even  dark  brown  of  the  com- 
plexion! That  was  not  very  common,  not  the  type  of  com- 
plexion one  sees  every  day. 

She  glanced  at  the  men  near  to  her.  Most  of  them  were 
Italians  and  swarthy.  But  not  one  had  that  peculiar,  almost 
bronze-like  darkness. 

Beryl  had  spoken  of  "a  living  bronze." 

Craven  was  speaking  to  her  again.  She  forced  herself  to 
reply  to  him,  though  she  scarcely  knew  what  she  was  saying. 
She  saw  a  look  of  surprise  in  the  eyes  which  he  fixed  on  her. 

"Isn't  it  getting  very  hot  ?"  she  said  quickly. 

"It  is  rather  hot.  Shall  I  ask  them  to  open  the  window  a 
little?    But  it  is  just  behind  you." 

"It  doesn't  matter.     I  have  brought  my  fan." 

She  picked  the  fan  up  and  began  to  use  it  unsteadily. 

"The  room  is  so  very  crowded  to-night,"  she  murmured. 

"Yes.    No  wonder  with  such  cooking.    Here  is  the  Zabaione." 

The  waitress  put  two  large  glasses  before  them  filled  with 
the  thick  yellow  custard,  then  brought  them  a  plate  of  biscuits. 

Lady  Sellingworth  laid  down  the  fan  and  picked  up  her 
spoon.  She  must  eat.  But  she  did  not  know  how  she  was 
going  to  force  herself  to  do  it.  Although  she  kept  on  saying 
to  herself :  "It's  impossible !"  she  could  not  get  rid  of  the  hor- 
rible suspicion  which  had  assailed  her.  On  the  contrary,  it 
seemed  to  grow  in  her  till  it  was  almost  a  conviction.  She 
tried  to  eat  tranquilly.  She  praised  the  Zabaione.  She  sipped 
her  Chianti  Rosso.  But  she  tasted  nothing,  and  when  the 
musicians  struck  up  another  melody  she  did  not  know  what 
they  were  playing. 

"Are  you  tired  of  it  ?" 

Craven  had  spoken  to  her. 

"Of  what  ?"  she  asked,  as  if  almost  startled. 

"That— Santa  Lucia?" 

"Oh— is  it?" 

He  looked  astonished. 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  429 

"Oh — yes,  I  must  say  I  am  rather  sick  of  it !"  she  said  quickly. 

She  laid  down  her  spoon. 

"Don't  you  like  the  Zabaione  ?" 

"Yes,  it's  delicious.  But  I  have  had  enough.  You  ordered 
such  a  very  good  dinner !" 

She  began  to  use  her  fan  again.  The  noise  of  voices  in  the 
room  was  becoming  like  the  noise  of  voices  in  a  nightmare. 
She  was  longing  to  confirm  or  banish  her  suspicion  by  a  long 
look  at  Beryl's  companion.  She  felt  sure  now  that  if  she  looked 
again  at  Arabian  she  would  be  absolutely  certain,  even  from  a 
distance,  whether  he  was  or  was  not  the  man  who  had  brought 
about  the  robbery  of  her  jewels  at  the  Gard  du  Nord  ten  years 
ago.  Her  mind  was  fully  awake  now,  and  she  would  be  able  to 
see.  But,  knowing  that,  she  did  not  dare  to  look  towards 
Arabian.  She  was  miserable  in  her  uncertainty,  but  she  was 
afraid  of  having  her  horrible  suspicion  confirmed.  She  was  a 
coward  at  that  moment,  and  she  knew  it. 

Craven  finished  his  Zabaione  and  put  down  his  spoon.  They 
had  not  ordered  another  course.  The  dinner  was  over.  But 
they  had  not  had  their  coffee  yet,  and  he  asked  for  it. 

"Are  you  going  to  smoke  a  Toscana  ?"  she  said,  forcing  her- 
self to  smile. 

"Yes,  I  think  I  will.    Do  let  me  give  you  a  cigarette." 

He  drew  out  his  case  and  offered  it  to  her.  She  took  a 
cigarette,  lit  it,  and  began  to  smoke.    Their  coffee  was  brought. 

"Oh,  it's  too  hot  to  drink  !"  she  said,  almost  irritably. 

"But  we  aren't  in  a  hurry,  are  we?"  he  said,  looking  at  her 
with  surprise. 

"No,  of  course  not." 

Now  she  was  gazing  resolutely  down  at  the  tablecloth.  She 
was  afraid  to  raise  her  eyes,  was  afraid  of  what  they  might  see. 
Her  whole  mind  now  was  bent  upon  getting  away  from  the 
restaurant  as  soon  as  possible.  She  had  decided  to  go  without 
making  sure  whether  Arabian  was  the  man  who  had  robbed  her 
or  not.  Even  uncertainty  would  surely  be  better  than  a  certainty 
that  might  bring  in  its  train  necessities  too  terrible  to  contem- 
plate mentally. 

As  she  was  looking  down  she  did  not  see  something  which 
just  then  happened  in  the  room.     It  was  this : 

Miss  Van  Tuyn,  who  had  not  said  a  word  to  Arabian  of  her 


430  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

friends  who  were  dining  by  the  window,  although  she  guessed 
that  he  had  probably  noticed  Alick  Craven  when  they  came  in, 
resolved  to  take  a  bold  step.  It  was  useless  any  longer  to  play 
for  concealment.  Since  she  came  out  to  dine  in  public  with 
Arabian,  since  he  had  asked  her  to  marry  him  and  she  had  not 
refused — though  she  had  not  accepted — since  she  knew  very 
well  that  she  had  not  the  will  power  to  send  him  out  of  her  life, 
she  resolved  to  do  what  she  had  not  done  in  Glebe  Place  and  to 
introduce  him  to  Craven.  She  even  decided  that  if  it  seemed 
possible  that  the  two  men  could  get  on  amicably  for  a  few 
minutes  she  would  go  a  step  farther;  she  would  introduce 
Arabian  to  Adela  Sellingworth. 

Adela  should  see  that  she.  Beryl,  was  absolutely  indifferent  to 
what  Craven  did,  or  did  not  do.  And  Craven  should  be  made 
to  understand  that  she  went  on  her  way  happily  without  him, 
and  not  with  an  old  man,  though  he  had  chosen  as  his  com- 
panion an  old  woman.  And,  incidentally,  she  would  put  Arabian 
to  the  test  which  had  been  missed  in  Glebe  Place.  With  this 
determination  in  her  mind  she  said  to  Arabian : 

"There  are  two  friends  of  mine  at  the  table  in  the  comer  by 
the  window." 

"Yes?"  he  said. 

And  he  turned  his  head  to  look. 

As  he  did  so,  perhaps  influenced  by  his  eyes,  or  by  the  fact 
that  the  attention  of  two  minds  was  at  that  moment  concentrated 
on  him,  Craven  looked  towards  them. 

"I  want  to  introduce  you  to  them  if  possible,"  said  Miss 
Van  Tuyn. 

And  she  made  a  gesture  to  Craven,  beckoned  to  him  to  come 
to  her.  He  looked  surprised,  reluctant.  She  saw  that  he 
flushed  slightly.  But  she  persisted  in  her  invitation.  She  had 
lost  her  head  in  Glebe  Place,  but  now  she  would  retrieve  the 
situation.  Vanity,  fear,  an  obscure  jealousy,  and  something 
else  pushed  her  on.  And  she  beckoned  again.  She  saw  Craven 
lean  over  and  say  something  to  Lady  Sellingworth.  Then  he 
got  up  and  came  down  the  room  towards  her,  threading  his  way 
among  the  many  tables. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  was  looking  at  him  just  then  and  not  at 
Arabian. 


CHAPTER  IV  DECEMBER  LOVE  431 

Craven  came  up,  looking  stiff,  almost  awkward,  and  markedly 
more  English  than  usual.     At  least  she  thought  so. 

"How  d'you  do,  Miss  Van  Tuyn  ?     How  are  you  ?" 

She  gave  him  her  hand  with  a  smile. 

"Very  well !  You  see,  I've  not  forgotten  my  old  haunts. 
And  I  see  you  haven't,  either.  Let  me  introduce  you  to  my 
friend,  Mr.  Arabian.     Mr.  Craven — Mr.  Arabian. 

Arabian  got  up  and  bowed. 

"Pleased  to  meet  you !"  he  said  in  a  formal  voice. 

"Good  evening !"  said  Craven,  staring  hard  at  him. 

"I  mustn't  ask  you  to  sit  down,"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn.  "As 
you  are  tied  up  with  Adela.  But" — she  hesitated  for  an  instant, 
then  continued  with  hardihood — "can't  you  persuade  Adela  to 
join  us  for  coffee  ?" 

At  this  moment  Arabian  made  a  movement  and  opened  his 
lips  as  if  about  to  say  something. 

"Yes  ?"  she  said,  looking  at  him. 

"I  was  only  going  to  say  that  these  tables  are  so  very  small. 
Is  it  not  so  ?    How  should  we  manage  ?" 

"Oh,  we  can  tuck  in  somehow.'* 

She  turned  again  to  Craven. 

"Do  ask  her.     Or  we  might  come  over  to  you." 

"Very  well !"  said  Craven,  still  stiffly. 

He  glanced  round  towards  the  window  and  started. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  leaned  forward  and  looked. 

There  was  no  longer  anyone  sitting  at  the  table  by  the 
window. 

Lady  Sellingworth  had  disappeared. 


CHAPTER  V 

WHAT  has  become  of  Adela ?"  exclaimed  Miss  Van  Tuyn. 
"I  haven't  the  least  idea,"  said  Craven,  looking  uncom- 
fortable.   "Perhaps She  complained  of  the  heat  just  now. 

She  may  have  gone  to  the  door  to  get  some  air.  Please  forgive 
me!" 

He  glanced  from  Miss  Van  Tuyn  to  Arabian,  who  was  still 
standing  up  stiffly,  with  a  rigidly  polite  expression  on  his  face. 

"I  must  just  see!" 

He  turned  away  and  walked  down  the  restaurant. 

When  he  got  to  the  counter  where  the  padrona  sat  enthroned 
he  found  their  waitress  standing  near  it. 

"Where  is  the  signora  ?"  he  asked. 

"The  signora  took  her  fur  and  went  out,  signorino,"  said  the 
woman. 

"The  bill,  please !" 

"Ecco,  signorino !" 

The  woman  presented  the  bill.  Craven  paid  it,  tipped  her, 
got  his  coat  and  hat,  and  went  hurriedly  out. 

He  expected  to  find  Lady  Sellingworth  on  the  doorstep,  but 
no  one  was  there,  and  he  looked  down  the  street,  first  to  the 
right,  then  to  the  left.  In  the  distance  on  the  left  he  saw  the  tall 
figure  of  a  woman  walking  slowly  near  a  lamp-post,  and  he 
hurried  down  the  street. 

As  his  footsteps  rang  on  the  pavement  the  woman  turned 
round,  and  showed  the  white  face  and  luminous  eyes  of  Lady 
Sellingworth. 

"You  have  given  me  quite  a  turn,  as  the  servants  say!"  he 
exclaimed,  coming  up  to  her.  "What  is  the  matter  ?  Are  you 
ill?" 

He  looked  anxiously  at  her. 

"What  made  you  go  away  so  suddenly?  You  didn't  mind 
my " 

432 


CHAPTER  V  DECEMBER  LOVE  433 

"No,  no!"  she  interrupted.  "But  I  do  feel  unwell.  I  feel 
very  unwell." 

"I'm  most  awfully  sorry!  Why  didn't  you  tell  me?  Why 
did  you  let  me  leave  you  ?" 

"Beryl  wanted  you." 

"It  was  only — she  only  wanted  to  suggest  our  all  having 
coffee  together." 

Her  mouth  went  awry. 

"Oh,  do  take  my  arm !"  he  exclaimed.  "What  is  it  ?  Are  you 
suffering  ?" 

After  a  pause  she  said : 

"Yes." 

There  seemed  to  him  something  ominous  in  the  sound  of  the 
word  as  she  spoke  it. 

"I'm  horribly  sorry.    I  must  find  you  a  cab." 

"Yes,  please  do." 

"But  in  Soho  it's  so  difficult!  Can  you  manage — can  you 
walk  a  little  way  ?" 

"Oh  yes." 

"Directly  we  get  into  Shaftesbury  Avenue  we  are  sure  to  see 
one.     It's  only  a  step." 

She  had  taken  his  arm,  but  she  did  not  lean  heavily  on  it, 
only  just  touched  it.  He  hardly  felt  the  weight  of  her  hand. 
Evidently  she  was  not  feeling  faint,  or  very  weak.  He  won- 
dered intensely  what  was  the  matter.  But  she  did  not  give  any 
explanation.  She  had  made  that  ominous  answer  to  his  ques- 
tion, and  there  she  left  it.  He  did  not  dare  to  make  any  further 
inquiry,  and  as  she  said  nothing  they  walked  on  in  silence.  As 
they  were  turning  into  Shaftesbury  Avenue  an  empty  taxicab 
passed  them  with  the  flag  up. 

"There's  a  taxi!"  said  Craven.    "One  minute!" 

He  let  her  arm  go  and  ran  after  it,  while  she  stood  waiting 
at  the  corner.  In  a  moment  he  came  back  followed  by  the  cab, 
which  drew  up  by  the  kerb.  He  opened  the  door  and  she  got  in. 
He  was  preparing  to  follow  her  when  she  leaned  forward  and 
put  her  hand  on  the  door. 

"Mayn't  I  ?    Don't  you  wish  me  to  come  with  you  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"But  do  let  me  see  you  home.  If  you  are  ill  you  really 
oughtn't  to  be  alone." 


434  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

"But  I'm  spoiling  your  evening.    Why  not  go  back  ?" 

"Go  back?" 

"Yes— go  back  to  Beryl?" 

He  stiffened,  and  the  hard  look  came  into  his  face.  She  saw 
his  jaw  quiver  slightly," 

"To  Miss  Van  Tuyn  ?     But  she  is  with  someone." 

"But  she  asked  you !" 

"She  asked  both  of  us.    I  shall  certainly  not  go  back  alone." 

"Really,  I  wish  you  would !  Go  back  and — and  see  Beryl 
home." 

He  looked  at  her  in  astonishment. 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  possibly  do  that !  There  was  no  suggestion — 
I  couldn't  do  that,  really.    I  wonder  you  ask  me  to.    Well " 

She  took  her  hand  away  from  the  door  and  he  shut  it.  But  he 
remained  beside  it — did  not  give  the  chauffeur  her  address. 

"Why  won't  you  let  me  take  you  back?"  he  said.  "I  don't 
understand." 

She  smiled,  and  he  thought  it  was  the  saddest  smile  he  had 
ever  seen. 

"One  is  only  a  bore  to  others  when  one  is  ill,"  she  said. 
"Good-bye.     Tell  the  man,  please." 

He  obeyed  her,  then  took  off  his  hat.  His  face  was  grim  and 
perplexed.  As  she  was  driven  away  in  the  night  she  gave  him  a 
strange  look ;  tragic  and  pleading,  he  thought,  a  look  that  almost 
frightened  him,  that  sent  a  shiver  through  him. 

"Is  she  horribly  ill?"  he  asked  himself.  "What  can  it  be? 
Perhaps  she  did  go  to  Switzerland  to  see  a  doctor.  Perhaps 
.  .  .  can  he  have  condemned  her  to  death  ?" 

He  shivered  again.    The  expression  of  her  eyes  haunted  him. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  at  the  street  corner,  pondering  over 
her  words.  What  could  have  induced  her  to  ask  him  to  go  back 
to  Beryl  Van  Tuyn,  to  see  Beryl  Van  Tuyn  home  ?  She  wanted 
him  to  interfere  between  Miss  Van  Tuyn  and  that  man,  Nicolas 
Arabian !  She  tried  metaphorically  to  push  him  towards  Miss 
Van  Tuyn.  It  was  inexplicable.  Lady  Sellingworth  was  a 
woman  of  the  world,  past  mistress  of  all  the  convenances,  one  in 
whom  any  breach  of  good  manners  was  impossible,  unthinkable ! 
And  yet  she  had  asked  him  to  go  back  to  the  restaurant,  and  to 
thrust  himself  into  the  company  of  a  girl  and  a  man  who  were 
dining  by  themselves.    She  had  even  asked  him,  a  young  fellow. 


CHAPTER  V  DECEMBER  LOVE  435 

certainly  younger  than  Beryl  Van  Tuyn's  escort,  to  play  the 
part  of  chaperon  to  the  girl ! 

Did  she — could  she  know  something  about  Arabian  ? 
Certainly  she  did  not  know  him.  In  the  restaurant  she  had 
inquired  who  he  was.  But,  later,  she  had  said  that  his  profile 
seemed  familiar  to  her,  that  perhaps  she  had  seen  him  about 
London.  Her  departure  from  the  restaurant  had  been  strangely 
abrupt.  Perhaps — could  she  have  recognized  Arabian  after  he. 
Craven,  had  left  her  alone  and  had  gone  to  speak  to  Miss  Van 
Tuyn?  The  man  looked  a  wrong  'un.  Craven  felt  certain  he 
was  a  wrong  'un.  But  if  so,  surely  Lady  Sellingworth  could 
not  know  him,  or  even  know  anything  about  him.  There  was 
something  so  remote  and  distinguished  about  her  life,  her  soli- 
tary, retired  life.    She  did  not  come  in  contact  with  such  people. 

"Get  you  a  kib,  gentleman?"  said  a  soft  cockney  voice  in 
Craven's  ear. 

He  started,  and  walked  on  quickly.  In  Lady  Sellingworth's 
conduct  that  night,  in  the  last  look  she  had  given  him,  there  was 
mystery.  He  was  quite  unable  to  fathom  it,  and  he  went  home 
to  his  flat  in  the  greatest  perplexity,  and  feeling  very  uneasy. 

When  Murgatroyd  opened  the  door  to  his  mistress  it  was  not 
much  after  nine,  and  he  was  surprised  to  see  her  back  so  early 
and  alone. 

"Tea,  please,  Murgatroyd !"  she  said. 

"Yes,  my  lady." 

She  passed  by  him  and  ascended  the  big  staircase.  He  heard 
her  go  into  the  drawing-room  and  shut  the  door. 

When,  a  few  minutes  later,  he  brought  in  the  tea,  she  was 
standing  by  the  fire.  She  had  taken  off  her  big  hat  and  laid  it 
on  a  table. 

"I  shall  want  nothing  more.     Good  night.'* 

"Good  night,  my  lady." 

He  went  towards  the  door.  When  he  was  just  going  out  he 
heard  her  say,  "Murgatroyd !"  and  turned. 

"My  lady !" 

"Please  let  Cecile  know  I  shan't  want  her  to-night.  She  is  not 
to  sit  up  for  me.     I'll  manage  for  myself." 

"Yes,  my  lady." 

"Make  it  quite  understood,  please." 

"Certainly,  my  lady." 


436  DECEMBER  LOVE  part   ax 

He  went  out  and  shut  the  door. 

When  she  was  alone  Lady  Sellingworth  stood  for  several 
minutes  by  the  fire  quite  still,  with  her  head  bent  down  and  her 
hands  folded  together.  Then  she  went  to  the  tea  table,  poured 
out  a  cup  of  tea,  sat  down  and  sipped  it  slowly,  looking  into 
vacancy  with  the  eyes  of  one  whose  real  gaze  was  turned  in- 
wards upon  herself.  She  finished  the  tea,  sat  still  for  a  little 
while,  then  got  up,  went  to  the  writing-table,  sat  before  it,  took 
a  pen  and  a  sheet  of  note-paper,  and  began  slowly  to  write. 

She  wrote  first  at  the  top  of  the  sheet  in  the  left-hand  corner, 
"Strictly  private,"  and  underlined  the  words.    Then  she  wrote : 

Dear  Beryl, — Please  consider  this  letter  absolutely  private  and  per- 
sonal. I  rely  on  your  never  speaking  of  it  to  anyone,  and  I  ask  you 
to  burn  it  directly  you  have  read  it.  Although  I  hate  more  than  any- 
thing else  interfering  in  the  private  affairs  of  another,  I  feel  that  it  is 
my  absolute  duty  to  send  this  to  you.  I  am  a  very  much  older  woman 
than  you — indeed,  almost  an  old  woman.  I  know  the  world  very  well — 
too  well — and  I  feel  I  can  ask  you  to  trust  me  when  I  give  you  a  piece 
of  advice,  however  unpleasant  it  may  seem  at  the  moment.  You  were 
dining  to-night  alone  with  a  man  who  is  totally  unfit  to  be  your  com- 
panion, or  the  companion  of  any  decent  woman.  I  cannot  explain  to 
you  how  I  know  this,  nor  can  I  tell  you  why  he  is  unfit  to  be  in  any 
reputable  company.  But  I  solemnly  assure  you — I  give  you  my  word — 
that  I  am  telling  you  the  truth.  That  man  is  a  blackguard  in  the  full 
acceptation  of  the  word.  I  believe  you  met  him  by  chance  in  a  studio. 
I  am  quite  positive  that  you  know  nothing  whatever  about  him.  I  do. 
I  know 

She  hesitated,  leaning  over  the  paper  with  the  pen  lifted, 
frowning  painfully  and  with  a  look  of  fear  in  her  eyes.  Then 
her  face  hardened  in  an  expression  of  white  resolution,  and  she 
wrote : 

"I  know  that  he  ought  to  be  in  prison.    He  is  beyond  the  pale.     You 

must  never  be  seen  with  him  again.     I  have  said  nothing  of  this  to 

anyone.     Mr.  Craven  has  not  a  suspicion  of  it.     Nor  has  anyone  else 

whom  we  know.     Drop  that  man  at  once.     I  don't  think  he  will  ask 

you  for  your  reason.     His  not  doing  so  will  help  to  prove  to  you  that 

I  am  telling  you  the  truth. — Yours  sincerely,    ,, .  „ 

Adela  Sellingworth. 


When  she  had  finished  this  letter  Lady  Sellingworth  read  it 
over  carefully  twice,  then  put  it  into  an  envelope  and  wrote  on 


CHAPTER  V  DECEMBER  LOVE  437 

the  envelope  Beryl's  address,  and  in  the  corner  "strictly  private." 
But  having  done  this  she  did  not  fasten  the  envelope,  though  she 
lit  a  red  candle  that  was  on  the  table  and  took  up  a  stick  of 
sealing-wax.    Again  hesitation  seized  her. 

The  written  word  remains.  Might  it  not  be  very  dangerous 
to  send  this  letter  ?  Suppose  Beryl  did  show  it  to  that  man  who 
called  himself  Nicolas  Arabian?  He  might — it  was  improbable, 
but  he  might — bring  an  action  for  libel  against  the  writer.  Lady 
Sellingworth  sickened  as  she  thought  of  that,  and  rapidly  she 
imagined  a  hideous  scandal,  all  London  talking  of  her,  the  Law 
Courts,  herself  in  the  witness-box,  cross-examination.  What 
evidence  could  she  give  to  prove  that  the  accusation  she  had 
written  was  true  ? 

But  surely  Beryl  would  not  show  the  letter.  It  would  be 
dishonourable  to  show  it,  and  though  she  could  be  very  cruel 
Lady  Sellingworth  did  not  believe  that  Beryl  was  a  dishonour- 
able girl.  But  if  she  was  in  love  with  that  man?  If  she  was 
under  his  influence  ?  Women  in  love,  women  under  a  spell,  are 
capable  of  doing  extraordinary  things.  Lady  Sellingworth  knew 
that  only  too  well.  She  remembered  her  own  madnesses,  the 
madnesses  of  women  she  had  known,  women  of  the  "old  guard." 
And  Arabian  had  fascination.  She  had  felt  it  long  ago. '  And 
Beryl  was  young  and  had  wildness  in  her. 

It  might  be  very  dangerous  to  send  that  letter. 

But  if  she  did  not  send  it,  what  was  she  going  to  do?  She 
could  not  leave  things  as  they  were,  could  not  just  hold  her 
peace.  To  do  that  would  be  infamous.  And  she  could  not  be 
infamous.  She  felt  the  obligation  of  age.  Beryl  had  been  cruel 
to  her,  but  she  could  not  leave  the  girl  in  ignorance  of  the 
character  of  Arabian.  If  she  did  something  horrible  might 
happen,  would  almost  certainly  happen.  Beryl  was  very  rich 
now,  and  no  doubt  that  man  knew  it.  The  death  of  her  father 
had  been  put  in  all  the  papers.  There  had  been  public  chatter 
about  the  fortune  he  had  left.  Men  like  Arabian  knew  what 
they  were  about.  They  worked  with  deliberation,  worked  ac- 
cording to  plan.    And  Beryl  was  beautiful  as  well  as  rich. 

Things  could  not  be  left  as  they  were. 

If  she  did  not  send  that  letter  Lady  Sellingworth  told  herself 
that  she  would  have  to  see  Beryl  and  speak  to  her.  She  would 
have  to  say  what  she  had  written.    But  that  would  be  intolerable. 


438  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

The  girl  would  ask  questions,  would  insist  on  explanations, 
would  demand  to  be  enlightened.     And  then 

As  she  sat  by  the  writing-table,  plunged  in  thought.  Lady 
Sellingworth  lost  all  count  of  time.  But  at  last  she  took  the 
sealing-wax,  put  it  to  the  candle  flame,  and  sealed  up  the  letter. 
She  had  resolved  that  she  would  take  the  risk  of  sending  it. 
Anything  was  better  than  seeing  Beryl,  than  speaking  about  this 
horror.     And  Beryl  would  surely  not  be  dishonourable. 

Having  sealed  the  letter  Lady  Sellingworth  took  it  with  her 
upstairs.  She  had  decided  to  leave  it  herself  at  Claridge's  Hotel 
on  the  morrow. 

But  after  a  wretched  night  she  was  again  seized  by  hesitation. 
A  devil  came  and  tempted  her,  asking  her  what  business  this 
was  of  hers,  why  she  should  interfere  in  this  matter.  Beryl 
was  audacious,  self-possessed,  accustomed  to  take  her  own  way, 
to  live  as  she  chose,  to  know  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men. 
She  was  not  an  ignorant  girl,  inexperienced  in  the  ways  of  the 
world.  She  knew  how  to  take  care  of  herself.  Why  not 
destroy  the  letter  and  just  keep  silence?  She  had  really  no 
responsibility  in  this  matter.  Beryl  was  only  an  acquaintance 
who  had  tried  to  harm  her  happiness.  And  then  the  tempter 
suggested  to  her  that  by  taking  any  action  she  must  inevitably 
injure  her  own  life.  He  brought  to  her  mind  thoughts  of 
Craven.  If  she  let  Beryl  alone  the  fascination  of  Arabian 
might  work  upon  the  girl  so  efl^ectually  that  Craven  would  mean 
nothing  to  her  any  more ;  but  if  she  sent  the  letter,  or  spoke,  and 
Beryl  heeded  the  warning,  eventually,  perhaps  very  soon.  Beryl 
would  turn  again  to  Craven. 

By  warning  Beryl  Lady  Sellingworth  would  very  probably 
turn  a  weapon  upon  herself.  And  she  realized  that  fully.  For 
she  had  no  expectation  of  real  gratitude  from  the  girl  expressing 
itself  in  instinctive  unselfishness. 

"I  should  merely  make  an  enemy  by  doing  it,"  she  thought. 
"Or  rather  two  enemies." 

And  she  locked  the  letter  up.  She  thought  she  would  do 
nothing.  But  as  the  day  wore  on  she  was  haunted  by  a  feeling 
of  self-hatred.  She  had  done  many  wrong  things  in  her  life, 
but  certain  types  of  wrong  things  she  had  never  yet  done.  Her 
sins  had  been  sins  of  what  is  called  passion.  There  had  been 
strong  feeling  behind  them,  prompting  desire,  a  flame,  though 


CHAPTER  V  DECEMBER  LOVE  439 

not  always  the  purest  sort  of  flame.  She  had  not  been  a  cold 
sinner.  Nor  had  she  been  a  contemptible  coward.  Now  she 
was  beset  by  an  ugly  sensation  of  cowardice  which  made  her  ill 
at  ease  with  herself.  She  thought  of  Seymour  Portman.  He 
was  able  to  love  her,  to  go  on  loving  her.  Therefore,  in  spite  of 
all  her  caprices,  in  spite  of  all  she  had  done,  he  believed  in  that 
part  of  her  which  men  have  agreed  to  call  character.  She  could 
not  love  him  as  he  wished,  but  she  had  an  immeasurable  respect 
for  him.  And  she  knew  that  above  all  the  other  virtues  he 
placed  courage,  moral  and  physical.  Noblesse  oblige.  He 
would  never  fail.  He  considered  it  an  obligation  on  fhose  who 
were  born  in  what  he  still  thought  of  as  the  ruling  class  to  hold 
their  heads  high  in  fearlessness.  And  in  her  blood,  too,  ran 
something  of  the  same  feeling  of  obligation. 

If  she  put  her  case  before  Seymour  what  would  he  tell  her  to 
do  ?  To  ask  that  question  was  to  answer  it.  He  would  not  even 
tell.  He  would  not  think  it  necessary  to  do  that.  She  could 
almost  hear  his  voice  saying:  "There's  only  one  thing  to  be 
done." 

She  was  loved  by  Seymour ;  she  simply  could  not  be  a  coward. 

And  she  unlocked  the  box  in  which  the  letter  was  lying,  and 
ordered  her  car  to  come  round. 

"Please  drive  to  Claridge's !"  she  said  as  she  got  into  it. 

On  the  way  to  the  hotel  she  kept  saying  to  herself :  "Sey- 
mour !  Seymour !  It's  the  only  thing  to  do.  It's  the  only  thing 
to  do." 

When  the  car  stopped  in  front  of  the  hotel  she  got  out  and 
went  herself  to  the  bureau. 

"Please  give  this  to  Miss  Van  Tuyn  at  once.  It  is  very 
important." 

"Yes,  my  lady." 

"Is  she  in?" 

"I'm  not  sure,  my  lady,  but  I  can  soon " 

"No,  no,  it  doesn't  matter.    But  it  is  really  important." 

"It  shall  go  up  at  once,  my  lady." 

"Thank  you." 

As  Lady  Sellingworth  got  into  her  car  she  felt  a  sense  of 
relief. 

"I've  done  the  right  thing.    Nothing  else  matters." 


CHAPTER  VI 

MISS  VAN  TUYN  was  not  in  the  hotel  when  Lady  Selling- 
worth  called.  She  did  not  come  back  till  late,  and  when 
she  entered  the  hall  she  was  unusually  pale,  and  looked  both 
tired  and  excited.  She  had  been  to  Dick  Garstin  on  an  unpleas- 
ant errand,  and  she  had  failed  in  achieving  what  she  had  at- 
tempted to  bring  about.  Garstin  had  flatly  refused  not  to 
exhibit  Arabian's  portrait.  And  she  had  been  obliged  to  tell 
Arabian  of  his  refusal. 

The  man  at  the  bureau  gave  her  Lady  Sellingworth's  note, 
and  she  took  it  up  with  her  to  her  sitting-room.  As  she  sat 
down  to  read  it  she  noticed  the  words  on  the  envelope,  "Strictly 
private,"  and  wondered  what  it  contained.  She  did  not  recog- 
nize the  handwriting  as  Adela's.  She  took  the  letter  out  of  the 
envelope  and  saw  again  the  warning  words. 

"What  can  it  be  about  ?" 

Before  she  read  further  she  felt  that  some  unpleasant  infor- 
mation was  in  store  for  her,  and  for  a  moment  she  hesitated. 
Then  she  looked  at  the  address  on  the  paper:  "i8a,  Berkeley 
Square." 

It  was  from  Adela !  She  frowned.  She  felt  hostile,  already 
on  the  defensive,  though  she  had,  of  course,  no  idea  what  the 
letter  was  about.  But  when  she  had  read  it  her  cheeks  were 
scarlet,  and  she  crushed  the  paper  up  in  her  hand. 

"How  dare  she  write  to  me  like  that !  I  don't  believe  it.  I 
don't  believe  a  word  of  it !  She  only  wants  to  take  him  away 
from  me  as  she  is  trying  to  take  Alick  Craven." 

Instantly  she  had  come  to  a  conclusion  about  Adela's  reason 
for  writing  that  letter.  She  remembered  the  strange  episode  in 
the  Bella  Napoli  on  the  previous  evening — Adela's  extraor- 
dinary departure  when  Craven  had  come  to  speak  to  her  and 
Arabian.  She  had  not  seen  Craven  again.  There  had  been  no 
explanation  of  that  flight.  In  this  letter,  between  the  lines,  she 
read  the  explanation.     Adela  must  know  Arabian,  must  have 

440 


CHAPTER  VI  DECEMBER  LOVE  441 

had  something  to  do  with  him  in  the  past.  They  had,  perhaps, 
even  been  lovers.  She  did  not  know  the  age  of  Arabian,  but 
she  guessed  that  he  was  about  thirty-five,  perhaps  even  thirty- 
eight.  Adela  was  sixty  now.  They  might  have  been  lovers 
when  Arabian  was  quite  young,  perhaps  almost  a  boy.  At  that 
time  Adela  had  been  a  brilliant  and  conquering  beauty,  middle- 
aged  certainly,  over  forty,  but  still  beautiful,  still  full  of  charm, 
still  bent  on  conquest.  Miss  Van  Tuyn  remembered  the  photo- 
graph of  Adela  which  she  had  seen  at  Mrs.  Ackroyde's.  Yes, 
that  was  it !  Adela  knew  Arabian.  They  had  been  lovers.  And 
now,  out  of  jealousy,  she  had  written  this  abominable  letter. 

But  the  girl  read  it  again,  and  began  to  wonder.  It  was 
strangely  explicit,  even  for  the  letter  of  a  jealous  and  spiteful 
woman.  It  told  her  that  Arabian  was  beyond  the  pale,  that  he 
ought  to  be  in  prison.  In  prison !  That  was  going  very  far  in 
attack.  To  write  that,  unless  it  were  true,  was  to  write  an 
atrocious  libel.  But  a  jealous  woman  would  do  anything,  risk 
anything,  to  "get  her  own  back," 

Nevertheless  Miss  Van  Tuyn  felt  afraid.  This  strange  and 
terrible  letter  dovetailed  with  Dick  Garstin's  warning,  and  both 
fitted  in  as  it  were  with  underthings  in  her  own  mind,  with  those 
things  which  Garstin  had  summed  up  in  one  word  "intuition." 

Arabian  had  taken  her  news  about  Garstin  quite  coolly. 

"I  will  see  about  that  myself,"  he  had  said.    "But  now " 

And  then  he  had  made  passionate  love  to  her.  There  had 
been — she  had  noticed  it  all  through  her  visit — a  new  pressure  in 
his  manner,  a  new  and,  as  she  now  began  to  think,  almost 
desperate  authority  in  his  whole  demeanour.  His  long  reticence, 
the  reserve  which  had  puzzled  and  alarmed  her,  had  given  place 
to  a  frankness,  a  heat,  which  had  almost  swept  her  away.  She 
still  tingled  at  the  memory  of  what  she  had  been  through.  But 
now  she  began  to  think  of  it  with  a  certain  anxiety.  In  spite  of 
her  anger  against  Adela  her  brain  was  beginning  to  work  with 
some  of  its  normal  calmness, 

Arabian  had  been  very  slow  in  advance.  But  now  was  not  he 
like  a  man  in  great  haste,  like  a  man  who  wished  to  bring 
something  to  a  conclusion  rapidly,  if  possible  immediately? 
Passion  for  her,  perhaps,  drove  him  on  now  that  at  last  he  had 
spoken,  had  held  her  in  his  arms.  But  suppose  he  had  another 
reason  for  haste  ?    He  had  seen  Lady  Sellingworth.    He  knew 


4m  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

that  she  was  a  friend  of  the  girl  he  wanted  to  marry.  Miss  Van 
Tuyn  remembered  that  he  had  not  welcomed  her  suggestion 
that  the  two  couples,  he  and  she,  Lady  Sellingworth  and  Craven, 
should  have  coffee  together.  He  had  spoken  of  the  smallness  of 
the  tables  in  the  Bella  Napoli.  But  that  might  have  been  because 
he  was  jealous  of  Crayen, 

She  read  the  letter  a  third  time,  very  slowly  and  carefully. 
Then  she  put  it  back  into  its  envelope  and  rang  the  bell. 

A  waiter  came. 

"It's  about  seven,  isn't  it?"  she  said. 

"Half-past  seven,  madam." 

"Please  bring  me  up  some  dinner  at  once — anything.  Bring 
me  a  sole  and  an  omelette.  That  will  do.  But  I  want  it  as  soon 
as  possible." 

"Yes,  madam." 

The  waiter  went  out.  Then  Miss  Van  Tuyn  went  to  see  old 
Fanny,  and  explained  that  she  must  dine  alone  that  evening  as 
she  was  in  a  hurry. 

"I  have  to  go  to  Berkeley  Square  directly  after  dinner  to  visit 
i.  friend,  Lady  Sellingworth." 

"Then  I  am  to  dine  by  myself,  dear?"  said  Miss  Cronin 
plaintively. 

"Yes,  you  must  dine  alone.     Good  night,  Fanny." 

"Shan't  I  see  you  when  you  come  in  ?" 

"I  may  be  late.     Don't  bother  about  me." 

She  went  out  and  shut  the  door,  leaving  old  Fanny  distressed. 
Something  very  serious  was  certainly  happening.  Beryl  looked 
quite  unusual,  so  strung  up,  so  excited.  What  could  be  the 
matter?  H  only  they  could  get  back  to  Paris!  There  every- 
thing went  so  differently!  There  Beryl  was  always  in  good 
spirits.  The  London  atmosphere  seemed  to  hold  poison.  Even 
Bourget's  spell  was  lessened  in  this  city  of  darkness  and  strange 
inexplicable  perturbations. 

That  night,  about  a  quarter  to  nine,  when  Lady  Sellingworth 
had  just  finished  her  solitary  dinner  and  gone  up  to  the  drawing- 
room,  a  footman  came  in  and  said : 

"Will  you  see  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  my  lady?  She  has  called  and 
is  in  the  hall.    She  begs  you  to  see  her  for  a  moment." 

Two  spots  of  red  appeared  in  Lady  Sellingworth's  white 
cheeks.     For  a  moment  she  hesitated.     A  feeling  almost  of 


CHAPTER  VI  DECEMBER  LOVE  443 

horror  had  come  to  her,  a  longing  for  instant  flight.  She  had 
not  expected  this.  She  did  not  know  what  exactly  she  had 
expected,  but  it  had  certainly  not  been  this. 

"Did  you  say  I  was  in  ?"  she  said,  at  last. 

The  footman — a  new  man  in  the  house — looked  uncomfort- 
able. 

"I  said  your  Ladyship  was  not  out,  but  that  I  did  not  know 
whether  your  Ladyship  was  at  home  to  anyone." 

After  another  pause  Lady  Sellingworth  said : 

"Please  ask  Miss  Van  Tuyn  to  come  up," 

As  she  spoke  she  got  up  from  her  sofa.  She  felt  that  she 
could  not  receive  Beryl  sitting,  that  she  must  stand  to  confront 
what  was  coming  to  her  with  the  girl. 

The  footman  went  out  and  almost  immediately  returned. 

"Miss  Van  Tuyn,  my  lady." 

"Do  forgive  me,  Adela!"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  coming  in 
with  her  usual  graceful  self-possession  and  looking.  Lady 
Sellingworth  thought  in  that  first  moment,  quite  untroubled. 
"This  is  a  most  unorthodox  hour.  But  I  knew  you  were  often 
alone  in  the  evening,  and  I  thought  perhaps  you  wouldn't  mind 
seeing  me  for  a  few  minutes." 

She  took  Lady  Sellingworth's  hand  and  started.  For  the 
hand  was  cold.  Then  she  looked  round  and  saw  that  the  foot- 
man had  left  the  room.  The  big  door  was  shut.  They  were 
alone  together. 

"Of  course  you  know  why  I've  come,  Adela,"  she  said.  "I've 
had  your  letter." 

As  she  spoke  she  drew  it  out  of  the  mufif  she  was  carrying. 

"I  was  obliged  to  write  it,"  said  Lady  Sellingworth.  "It  was 
my  duty  to  write  it.'* 

"Yes?" 

"But  I  don't  want  to  discuss  it?" 

They  were  both  still  standing.    Now  Miss  Van  Tuyn  said : 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  sit  down  ?" 

"No ;  do  sit." 

"And  may  I  take  off  my  coat?" 

Lady  Sellingworth  was  obliged  to  say : 

"Yes,  do." 

Very  composedly  and  rather  slowly  Miss  Van  Tuyn  took  off 
her  fur  coat,  laid  aside  her  muff,  and  sat  down  near  the  fire. 


444  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

"I'm  very  sorry,  Adela,  but  really  we  must  discuss  this  let- 
ter," she  said.    "I  don't  understand  it." 

"Surely  it  is  explicit-  enough." 

"Yes.    It  is  too  explicit  not  to  be  discussed  between  us." 

"Beryl,  I  don't  want  to  discuss  it.     I  can't  discuss  it." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  it's  too  painful — a  horrible  subject.  You  must  take 
my  word  for  it  that  I  have  written  you  the  plain  truth." 

"Please  don't  think  I  doubt  your  word,  Adela." 

"No,  of  course  not.  And  that  being  so  let  the  matter  end 
there.    It  must  end  there." 

"But — where?    I  don't  quite  understand  really." 

"I  felt  obliged  to  send  you  a  warning,  a  very  serious  warning. 
I  greatly  disliked,  I  hated  doing  it.  But  I  couldn't  do  otherwise. 
You  are  young — a  girl.  I  am  an — I  am  almost  an  old  woman. 
We  have  been  friends.  I  saw  you  in  danger.  What  could  I  do 
but  tell  you  of  it?  I  knew  of  course  you  were  quite  innocent 
in  the  matter.  I  am  putting  no  blame  whatever  on  you.  You 
will  do  me  that  justice." 

"Oh,  yes." 

"So  there  is  nothing  more  to  discuss.  I  have  done  what  I  was 
bound  to  do,  and  I  know  you  will  heed  my  warning." 

She  looked  at  the  letter  in  Beryl's  hand,  and  remembered  her 
feeling  of  danger  when  she  wrote  it. 

"And  now  please  burn  that  letter.  Beryl.  Throw  it  into  the 
fire." 

As  she  spoke  she  pointed  to  the  fire  on  the  hearth.  But  Miss 
Van  Tuyn  kept  the  letter  in  her  hand. 

"Please  wait  a  minute,  Adela !"  she  said. 

And  a  mutinous  look  came  into  her  face. 

"You  don't  quite  understand  how  things  are.  It's  all  very 
well  to  think  you  can  make  me  give  up  my  friends — any  friend 
of  mine — at  a  moment's  notice  and  at  a  word  from  you.  But  I 
don't  see  things  quite  in  the  same  light." 

"That — that  man  isn't  your  friend.    Don't  say  that." 

"But  I  do  say  it,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  now  intense  obstinacy. 

"You  met  him  in  Mr.  Garstin's  studio,  didn't  you  ?" 

"Perhaps  I  did.    There  is  nothing  against  him  in  that." 

"I  do  not  say  there  is.  But  I  do  say  you  know  nothing  about 
him." 


CHAPTER  VI  DECEMBER  LOVE  445 

"But  how  do  you  know  that?  You  assume  a  great  deal, 
Adela." 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  him?" 

"Suppose  I  were  to  ask  you  questions  in  my  turn?" 

"Questions  ?    But  I  have  told  you " 

"Yes,  you  have  told  me  certain  things,  but  you  have  explained 
nothing.  You  seem  to  expect  everything  from  me.  Am  I  not 
to  expect  anything  from  you  ?" 

"Anything !    But  what  ?" 

"An  explanation,  surely." 

Lady  Sellingworth  was  silent.  She  was  still  standing.  The 
two  spots  of  red  still  glowed  in  her  white  face.  Her  eyes  looked 
like  the  eyes  of  one  who  was  in  dread.  They  had  lost  their 
usual  expression  of  self-command,  and  resembled  the  eyes  of  a 
creature  being  hunted.  Miss  Van  Tuyn  saw  that  and  wondered. 
A  fierce  animosity  woke  in  her  and  made  her  more  obstinate, 
more  determined  to  get  at  the  truth  of  this  mystery.  She  would 
not  leave  this  house  until  light  was  given  to  her.  She  had  a 
strong  will.  It  was  now  fully  roused,  and  she  was  ready  to  pit 
it  against  Adela's  will.  And  she  had  another  weapon  in  her 
armoury.  She  was  now  very  angry,  with  an  anger  which  she 
did  not  fully  understand,  and  which  was  made  up  of  several 
elements.  One  of  these  elements  was  certainly  passion.  This 
anger  rendered  her  merciless. 

"Well,  Adela?"  she  said  at  length,  as  Lady  Sellingworth  did 
not  speak. 

"What  is  it  you  want,  Beryl  ?"  said  Lady  Sellingworth,  look- 
ing into  her  eyes  and  then  quickly  away. 

"But  I  have  told  you — an  explanation." 

She  unfolded  the  letter  slowly. 

"I  can't  give  you  one.  I  have  told  you  the  truth,  and  I  ask 
you  to  accept  it,  and  I  beg,  I  implore  you  to  act  upon  it." 

"Suppose  I  were  to  make  a  violent  attack  on  one  of  your 
friends,  on  Mr.  Craven  for  instance  ?" 

"Please  don't  bracket  Mr.  Craven  and  that  man  together!" 
said  Lady  Sellingworth  sharply. 

Beryl  Van  Tuyn  flushed  with  anger. 

"But  I  do  \"  she  said.  "I  choose  to  do  that  for  the  sake  of 
argument." 


446  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

"Two  such  men  have  nothing  in  common,  nothing !  One  is  a 
gentleman,  the  other  is  a  blackguard !" 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  thought  of  the  previous  evening,  when  Lady 
Sellingworth  had  dined  with  Craven  while  she  had  dined  with 
Arabian,  and  she  was  stung  to  the  quick. 

"I  cannot  allow  you  to  speak  like  this  of  a  friend  of  mine 
without  an  explanation,"  she  said  bitterly.  "And  now" — she 
spoke  more  hurriedly,  as  if  fearing  to  be  interrupted — "I  will 
finish  what  I  was  going  to  say,  if  you  will  allow  me.  Suppose  I 
were  to  make  an  attack  on,  say,  Mr.  Craven,  to  tell  you  that  I 
happened  to  know  he  was  thoroughly  bad,  immoral,  a  liar,  any- 
thing you  like.  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  would  give  him  up  at 
once  without  insisting  on  knowing  from  me  my  exact  reasons 
for  branding  him  as  unfit  for  your  company?  Of  course  you 
wouldn't.  And  not  only  you !  No  one  would  do  such  a  thing 
who  had  any  courage  or  any  will  in  them." 

She  lifted  the  letter. 

"In  this  letter  you  say  that  Mr.  Arabian  is  unfit  to  be  the 
companion  of  any  decent  woman,  that  he  is  a  blackguard  in  the 
full  acceptance  of  the  word,  that  he  is  beyond  the  pale,  and, 
finally,  that  he  ought  to  be  in  prison.  Very  well !  I  don't  say 
for  a  moment  that  I  doubt  your  word,  but  I  do  ask  you  to 
justify  it.  Of  course  I  know  that  you  easily  can.  Otherwise  I 
am  sure  that  you  would  never  have  written  such  awful  accusa- 
tions against  anyone.  It  would  be  too  wicked,  and  I  know  you 
are  not  wicked.  Please  tell  me  your  exact  reason  for  writing 
this  letter,  Adela." 

"I  can't." 

"You  really  mean  that  ?" 

"I  won't.    It's  impossible." 

Miss  Van  Tuyn's  face  became  very  hard." 

"Well,  then,  Adela " 

She  paused.  Suddenly  there  had  come  into  her  mind  the 
thought  of  a  possible  way  of  forcing  the  confidence  which  Lady 
Sellingworth  refused  to  give  her.  Should  she  take  it?  She 
hesitated.  Arabian's  will  was  upon  her  even  here  in  this  quiet 
drawing-room.  His  large  eyes  seemed  fixed  upon  her.  She 
still  felt  the  long  and  soft  touch  of  his  lips  clinging  to  hers  like 
the  lips  of  a  thirsty  man.  Would  he  wish  her  to  take  this  way  ? 
For  a  moment  she  felt  afraid  of  him.     But  then  her  strong 


CHAPTER  VI  DECEMBER  LOVE  447 

independence  of  an  American  girl  rose  up  to  combat  this 
imaginative,  almost  occult,  domination.  Arabian  himself,  his 
fate  perhaps,  was  concerned  in  this  matter.  She  could  not,  she 
would  not  allow  even  Arabian,  whose  will  imposed  itself  on 
hers,  who  had  gathered  her  strangely,  mysteriously,  into  a  grip 
which  she  felt  almost  like  a  thing  palpable  upon  her,  to  prevent 
her  from  finding  out  the  truth  which  Lady  Sellingworth  seemed 
resolved  to  keep  from  her.  She  still  believed,  indeed  she  felt 
practically  certain,  that  Lady  Sellingworth  and  Arabian  in  the 
past  had  been  lovers.  Her  jealousy  was  furiously  awake.  She 
felt  reckless  of  consequences  and  ready  to  take  any  course 
which  would  bring  to  her  what  she  needed,  full  knowledge  of 
what  had  led  Adela  Sellingworth  to  send  her  that  letter. 

Lady  Sellingworth  was  looking  at  her  now  steadily,  with,  she 
thought,  a  sort  of  almost  fierce  pleading.  But  she  cared  very 
little  for  Adela's  feelings  just  then. 

"You  really  refuse  to  tell  me  ?" 

"I  must.  Beryl." 

"I  don't  think  that's  fair.    It  isn't  fair  to  me  or  to  him." 

"I  can't  help  that.  Please  don't  ask  me  anything  more.  And 
please  destroy  that  letter.    Or  let  me  destroy  it." 

She  held  out  her  hand,  but  Miss  Tuyn  sat  quite  still. 

"I  must  tell  you  something,"  she  said.  "If  you  will  not 
explain  to  me  I  think  I  ought  to  go  for  an  explanation  to  some- 
one else." 

"Someone  else !"  said  Lady  Sellingworth  in  a  startled  voice. 
■"But — do  you  know — to  whom  would  you  go?" 

"I  think  I  ought  to  go  to  him,  to  the  man  you  accuse  of  name- 
less things." 

"But  you  can't  do  that !" 

"Why  not  ?     It  would  only  be  fair." 

"But  what  reason  could  you  give?" 

"Naturally  I  should  have  to  say  that  you  had  warned  me 
against  him." 

"No — no,  you  mustn't  do  that." 

"Really?    I  am  to  be  bound  hand  and  foot  while  you " 

"You  saw  what  I  wrote  in  that  letter." 

"Yes,  of  Goujse.  Naturally  I  will  not  show  it.  But  I  shall 
have  to  say  that  you  warned  me  to  drop  him." 


448  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

"I  can't  have  my  name  mentioned  to  that  man,"  said  Lady 
Sellingworth  desperately. 

"And  I  can't  drop  him  without  telling  him  why." 

"Beryl,  you  can't  have  read  the  end  of  my  letter." 

"But  I  have!" 

"Then  have  you  forgotten  it?  Look!  I  wrote  in  it  that  I 
don't  think  he  will  ask  for  your  reason  if  you  refuse  to  see  him 
again." 

"That  only  proves  how  little  you  know  about  him.  I  shall 
not  do  it,  Adela.  You  are  not  very  frank  with  me,  but  I  am 
sincere  with  you.  Either  you  must  give  me  an  explanation  of 
your  reason  for  writing  this  letter,  or  you  must  give  me  per- 
mission to  tell  Mr.  Arabian  of  your  warning,  or — if  you  won't 
do  either  the  one  or  the  other — I  shall  take  no  action  because  of 
this  letter.  I  shall  behave  as  if  I  had  never  received  it  and 
read  it." 

"Beryl !  What  reason  could  I  have  for  writing  as  I  have 
written  if  I  had  nothing  against  this  man?" 

"I  don't  know.  It  is  very  difficult  to  understand  the  reasons 
women  have  for  doing  what  they  do.  But  I  have  come  here  to 
ask  you  what  your  reason  is.    That's  why  I  am  here  now." 

"Could  I  have  a  bad  reason,  a  selfish  reason?" 

"How  can  I  tell?" 

"Then  have  you  a  bad  opinion  of  me,  of  my  character  ?" 

"I  have  always  admired  you  very  much.    You  know  that." 

"Once — once  you  called  me  a  book  of  wisdom." 

"Did  I  ?" 

"Don't  you  remember  ?" 

"I  dare  say  I  did." 

"And  I  think  you  meant  of  worldly  wisdom.  Then  can't  you, 
won't  you,  trust  my  opinion  of  this  man?" 

"Oh  if  it's  only  your  opinion !" 

"But  it  is  not.     It  is  knowledge !" 

"Then  you  know  Mr.  Arabian  ?" 

"I  didn't  say  that." 

"Do  you  know  him  ?" 

Lady  Sellingworth  turned  away  for  a  moment.  She  stood 
with  her  back  to  Miss  Van  Tuyn  and  her  face  towards  the  fire, 
holding  the  mantelpiece  with  her  right  hand.  Miss  Van  Tuyn, 
motionless,  stared  at  her  tall  figure.     She  felt  this  was  a  real 


CHAPTER  VI  DECEMBER  LOVE  449 

battle  between  herself  and  her  friend,  or  enemy.  She  was 
determined  to  win  it  somehow.  She  still  had  a  weapon  in  re- 
serve, the  weapon  she  had  thought  of  just  now  when  she  had 
resolutely  put  away  her  fear  of  Arabian.  But  perhaps  she 
would  not  be  forced  to  use  it,  perhaps  she  could  overcome 
Adela's  extraordinary  resistance  without  it.  As  she  looked  at 
the  woman  turned  from  her  she  began  to  think  that  might  be 
possible.  Adela  was  surely  weakening.  This  pause,  this  sudden 
moving  away,  this  long  hesitation  suggested  weakness.  At  last 
Lady  Sellingworth  turned  round, 

"You  ask  me  whether  I  know  that  man." 

"I  asked  you  whether  you  knew  Mr.  Arabian!"  said  Miss 
Van  Tuyn,  on  a  note  of  acute  exasperation- 

"I  don't  know  him." 

"That  is  a  lie !"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn  to  herself. 

To  Lady  Sellingworth  she  said : 

"Then  if  you  don't  know  Mr,  Arabian  you  are  only  repeating 
hearsay." 

"No !" 

"But  you  must  be !" 

"I  am  not." 

"Adela,  you  are  incomprehensible,  or  else  I  must  be  densely 
stupid.     One  or  the  other !" 

"One  may  know  things  about  a  man's  character  and  life 
without  being  personally  acquainted  with  him." 

"Then  it's  hearsay.  I  am  not  going  to  drop  Mr.  Arabian 
because  of  hearsay,  more  especially  when  I  don't  even  know 
what  the  hearsay  is," 

"It  is  not  hearsay." 

"It  doesn't  come  from  other  people  ?" 

"No." 

"Then" — a  sudden  thought  struck  her — "is  it  from  the  news- 
papers? Has  he  ever  been  in  some  case,  some  scandal,  that's 
been  in  the  newspapers  ?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of.    It  isn't  that." 

"Really  this  is  like  the  'mysteries  of  Udolpho,' "  said  Miss 
Van  Tuyn,  concealing  her  anger  and  her  burning  curiosity  under 
a  pretence  of  petulance.    "And  I  really  can't  take  it  seriously." 

"But  you  must.  Beryl.    You  must !" 


450  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

Lady  Sellingworth  came  to  her  quickly  and  sat  down  beside  her. 

"I  know  my  conduct  must  seem  very  strange." 

"It  does,  indeed !" 

"And  I  dare  say  all  sorts  of  suspicions,  ugly  suspicions 
perhaps,  have  come  into  your  mind.  But  try  to  put  them  away. 
Try  to  believe  that  I  am  honestly  doing  my  best  to  be  a  friend 
to  you,  a  true  friend." 

"Forgive  me,  Adela,  for  being  brutally  frank  with  you.  But 
I  don't  think  you  care  very  much  for  me." 

"I  wrote  that  letter  against  my  own  desire  simply  because  I 
thought  I  ought  to.  I  wrote  it  simply  for  your  sake.  I  would 
have  given  a  very  great  deal  not  to  write  it.  I  knew  that  there 
was  even  danger  in  writing  it." 

"What  danger?" 

"It  was  possible  that  you  might  disregard  my  request  and 
show  my  letter.  I  felt  practically  certain  you  wouldn't,  but  you 
might  have  done  so," 

"And  if  I  had?" 

"If  you  had — then — but  I  only  tell  you  this  to  prove  that  in 
this  instance  I  was  trying  to  be  a  friend  to  you." 

"If  I  had  shown  this  letter,  or  if  I  were  to  show  it  to  Mr. 
Arabian  he  might  bring  an  action  for  libel  on  it,  I  should  think." 

"I  dare  say  he  could  do  that." 

"Well— but  if  you  could  justify!" 

"But  I  couldn't." 

"You  couldn't !  You  write  me  a  libel  about  a  friend  of  mine 
which  you  yourself  say  you  couldn't  justify !" 

"I  can't  bear  to  hear  you  speak  of  that  man  as  your  friend." 

"He  is  my  friend.  I  like  him  very  much  indeed.  And  I 
know  him,  have  known  him  for  weeks,  while  you  tell  me  you 
don't  know  him.  I  shall  venture  to  set  my  knowledge,  my  per- 
sonal knowledge,  against  your  ignorance,  Adela,  and  to  go  on 
with  my  friendship.  But  you  need  not  be  afraid."  She  smiled 
contemptuously.  "I  will  not  show  Mr.  Arabian  this  cruel  letter 
which  your  yourself  say  you  couldn't  justify." 

As  she  spoke  she  returned  the  letter  to  her  muflF,  which  was 
lying  on  a  table  beside  her. 

"Well,"  she  added,  "I  don't  know  that  there  is  anything  more 
I  need  say.  I  came  here  to  have  it  out  with  you.  That  is  my 
way,  perhaps  an  American  way,  of  doing  things.     We  don't 


CHAPTER  VI  DECEMBER  LOVE  461 

care  for  underhand  dealings.    We  like  things  fair  and  square." 

She  got  up. 

"You  have  your  way  of  doing  things  and  we  have  ours !  I'll 
tell  you  what  mine  would  have  been,  Adela,  if  the  situation  had 
been  reversed.  I  should  not  have  written  at  all.  I  should  have 
come  to  see  you,  and  if  I  had  had  some  grave,  hideous  charge 
to  make  I  should  have  made  it,  and  fully  explained  my  reasons 
for  making  it  to  you.  I  should  have  put  you  in  the  same  state 
of  complete  knowledge  as  I  was  in.  That  is  my  idea  of  friend- 
ship and  fair  dealing.  But  you  think  otherwise.  So  what  is  the 
good  of  our  arguing  any  more  about  the  matter?" 

Lady  Sellingworth  was  still  sitting.  For  a  moment  she  did 
not  move,  but  remained  where  she  was  looking  up  at  the  girl. 
Just  then  she  was  assailed  by  a  fierce  temptation.  After  all, 
had  not  she  done  her  part?  Had  not  she  done  all  that  anyone 
could  expect  from  her,  from  any  woman  under  the  existing 
circumstances?  Had  not  she  done  even  much  more  than  many 
women  could  have  brought  themselves  to  do?  Beryl  had  not 
been  very  kind  to  her.  Beryl  was  really  the  enemy  of  her 
happiness,  of  her  poor  little  attempt  after  happiness.  And  yet 
she  had  taken  a  risk  in  order  to  try  and  save  Beryl  from  danger. 
And  the  girl  would  not  be  saved.  Headstrong,  wilful,  embit- 
tered, she  refused  to  be  saved.  Then  why  not  let  her  go  ?  She 
had  been  warned.  She  chose  to  defy  the  warning.  That  was 
not  Lady  Sellingworth's  fault. 

"I've  done  enough  !    I've  done  all  I  can  do." 

She  said  this  to  herself  as  she  sat  and  looked  at  the  girl. 

"I  can't  do  any  more !" 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  reached  out  for  her  coat  and  began  very 
deliberately  to  put  it  on.  Then  she  picked  up  the  muff  in  which 
the  letter  lay  hidden. 

"Well,  good  night,  Adela!" 

Lady  Sellingworth  got  up  slowly. 

"I  promise  that  I  will  not  show  your  letter.  So  don't  be 
afraid," 

"I'm  not  afraid." 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  held  out  her  hand. 

"No  doubt  you  have  your  reasons  for  doing  what  you  have 
done.  I  don't  pretend  to  understand  them.  And  I  don't  under- 
stand you.     But  women  are  often  incomprehensible  to  me. 


452  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

Perhaps  that  is  why  I  usually  prefer  men.  They  don't  plunge 
you  in  subtleties.    They  let  you  understand  things." 

"Ah !"  exclaimed  Lady  Sellingworth. 

And  there  was  a  passion  of  acute  irony  in  the  exclamation. 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  looking  sur- 
prised, almost  startled. 

But  Lady  Sellingworth  did  not  tell  her. 

"If  you  will  go  like  this,  Beryl — go !"  she  said.  "I  cannot 
force  you  to  do,  or  not  to  do,  anything.  But" — she  laid  a  hand 
on  the  girl's  arm  and  pressed  it  till  her  hand  almost  hurt  Beryl — 
"but  I  tell  you  that  you  are  in  danger,  in  great  danger.  I  dread 
to  think  of  what  may  be  in  store  for  you." 

Something  in  the  grasp  of  her  hand,  in  her  manner,  in  her 
eyes,  impressed  Miss  Van  Tuyn  in  spite  of  herself.  Again 
fear,  a  fear  mysterious  and  cold,  crept  in  her.  Garstin  had 
warned  her  in  his  way.  Now  Adela  was  warning  her.  And  she 
remembered  that  other  warning  whispered  by  something  within 
herself.  She  stood  still  looking  into  Lady  Sellingworth's  eyes. 
Then  she  looked  down.  She  seemed  to  be  considering  some- 
thing.   At  last  she  looked  up  again  and  said : 

"You  said  to  me  to-night  that  you  did  not  know  Mr.  Arabian 
— now." 

"I  don't  know  him  ?'^ 

"But  have  you  known  him  ?    Did  you  know  him  long  ago  ?" 

"I  have  never  known  him." 

"Then  I  don't  understand.  And — and  I  will  not  act  in 
ignorance.    It  isn't  fair  to  expect  me  to  do  that." 

"I  have  done  all  that  I  can  do,"  said  Lady  Sellingworth,  with 
a  sort  of  despair,  taking  her  hand  from  the  girl's  arm. 

"Very  well." 

Beryl  moved  and  went  slowly  towards  the  door.  Lady 
Sellingworth  stood  looking  after  her.  She  thought  the  hideous 
interview  was  over.  But  she  did  not  know  Beryl  even  yet,  did 
not  realize  even  yet  the  passionate  force  of  curiosity  which 
possessed  Beryl  at  this  moment.  When  the  girl  was  not  far 
from  the  door,  and  when  Lady  Sellingworth  was  reaching  out 
her  hand  to  touch  the  bell  in  order  that  the  footman  might  know 
that  her  visitor  was  leaving  her.  Beryl  turned  round. 

"Adela !"  she  said. 

"Yes.    What  is  it?" 


CHAPTER  VI  DECEMBER  L0\:E  453 

"Perhaps  you  think  that  I  have  been  very  persistent  to-night, 
that  I  have  almost  cross-examined  you." 

"I  don't  blame  you.  It  is  natural  that  you  wished  to  ktt>w 
more." 

"Yes,  it  is  natural,  because  Mr.  Arabian  wants  me  to  marry 
him." 

"To  marry  him !"  j 

Lady  Sellingworth  started  forward  impulsively.  ' 

"Marry  ?    He  wants — you — ^you " 

"He  loves  me.    He  has  asked  me  to  marry  him." 

She  turned  away,  and  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it  ^ 

"Beryl,  come  here !" 

"Why?" 

"Beryl !" 

"But  what  is  the  good  ?  You  refuse  to  tell  me  anything.  I 
tell  you  everything.  Now  you  understand  why  I  feel  angry  at 
these  horrible  accusations." 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  you  have  ever  dreamed  of  marry- 
ing such  a  man !" 

"Don't  abuse  him !  I  don't  wish  to  hear  him  abused.  I  hate 
it.    I  won't  have  it." 

"But — Beryl !  But  only  a  few  days  ago  you  as  good  as  told 
me  you  cared  for  Alick  Craven.  You — you  gave  me  to  under- 
stand that  you  liked  him  very  much,  that  you " 

"Oh,  this  is  intolerable!"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn.  "Really! 
Why  do  you  interfere  in  my  life  like  this?  What  have  I  done 
to  set  you  against  me?  You  talk  about  being  my  friend,  but 
you  do  everything  you  can  to  upset  my  happiness.  It  is  enough 
that  I  like  anyone  for  you  to  try  to  come  between  us.  First  it 
was  Alick  Craven !  Now  it  is  Mr.  Arabian !  It  is  unbearable. 
You  have  had  your  life.  You  have  had  a  splendid  life,  every- 
thing any  woman  could  wish  to  have.  I  am  a  girl.  I  am  only 
beginning.  Why  can't  you  leave  me  alone  ?  Why  can't  you  let 
me  have  some  happiness  without  thrusting  yourself  in  and  try- 
ing to  spoil  everything  for  me?  Won't  you  ever  have  had 
enough  ?  Ever  since  I  have  known  Mr.  Craven  you  have  tried  to 
get  him  away  from  me.  And  now  you  are  doing  your  best  to 
make  me  give  up  a  man  who  loves  me  and  wants  to  marry  me." 

"Beryl!    Please!" 

"No,  I  will  not  bear  it.    I  will  not !    I  admired  you.    I  had  a 


454.  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

cult  for  you.  Everyone  knew  it.  I  went  about  praising  you, 
telling  everyone  you  were  the  most  wonderful  woman  I  had 
ever  known.  You  can  ask  anybody.  People  used  to  laugh  at 
me  about  my  infatuation  for  you.  I  stood  up  for  you  always. 
They  told  me — ^but  I  wouldn't  believe !" 

"What  did  they  tell  you  ?" 

"Never  mind.  But  now  I  begin  to  believe  it  is  true.  You 
can't  bear  to  see  other  women  happy.    That's  what  it  is." 

"Beryl,  it  isn't  that !    No,  it  isn't  that !" 

"You  have  had  it  all.  But  that  doesn't  satisfy  you.  You 
want  to  prevent  other  women  from  having  any  of  the  happiness 
that  you  can't  have  now.  It  is  cruel.  I  never  thought  you  were 
like  that.  I  took  you  as  a  pattern  of  what  a  woman  of  your  age 
should  be.  I  looked  up  to  you.  I  would  have  come  to  you  for 
counsel,  for  advice.  You  were  my  book  of  wisdom.  I  thought 
you  were  far  above  all  the  pettinesses  that  disfigure  other 
women,  the  women  who  hate  us  girls,  who  want  to  snatch  every- 
thing from  us.  And  now  you  are  trying  to  do  me  more  harm 
than  any  other  woman  has  ever  tried  to  do  me !" 

"I — I  will  prove  to  you  that  it  isn't  so!"  said  Lady  Selling- 
worth.    "Please  shut  the  door." 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  obeyed. 

"But — but — first  tell  me  something." 

"What?" 

"Tell  me  the  absolute  truth." 

"I  am  not  a  liar,  Adela." 

"But  sometimes — truth  is  difficult  sometimes." 

"What  is  it  you  want  to  know  ?" 

"Do  you  care  for  this — do  you  care  for  Mr.  Arabian  ?" 

"Perhaps  I  do." 

"Do  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  are  really  thinking  of  doing  what  he 
wishes  you  to  do  ?" 

"I  haven't  told  him  yet." 

**But  you  are  thinking  of  marrying  him?" 

*T  know  nothing  against  him.    He  cares  for  me  very  much." 

Lady  Sellingworth  was  silent. 

*' Perhaps  you  don't  believe  that?  Perhaps  you  think  that's 
impossible  ?" 


CHAPTER  VI  DECEMBER  LOVE  456 

"Oh,  no !     But " 


"I  know  exactly  what  you  are  thinking.  You  are  thinking' 
that  I  am  rich  now  that  my  father  is  dead.  But  he  is  rich  too. 
He  does  not  need  my  money.  He  has  never  done  any  work. 
He  has  been  an  idler  all  his  life.  He  has  often  told  me  that  he 
has  had  too  much  money  and  that  it  has  done  him  harm,  made 
him  an  idler." 

"And  you  believe  all  that  ?" 

"I  believe  that  he  cares  for  me  very  much.    I  know  he  does." 

"Once  I  thought  that  man " 

She  stopped, 

"Promise  me  one  thing,"  she  said  at  last  in  a  different  voice. 
"Promise  me  that  you  will  not  marry  Mr.  Arabian.  I  won't  ask 
anything  else  of  you  ;  only  that," 

"But  I  won't  promise,    I  can't." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because — because  I  don't  know  what  I  am  going  to  do,  what 
I  might  do,"  She  looked  down,  then  added  in  a  low  voice: 
"He  fascinates  me." 

For  the  first  time  since  she  had  come  into  the  room  there  was 
a  helpless  sound  in  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  voice,  a  sound  that  was 
wholly  girlish,  absolutely,  transparently  sincere.  Lady  Selling- 
worth  did  not  miss  it, 

"I  haven't  made  up  my  mind,"  she  said,  "But  he  fascinates 
me." 

And  at  that  moment  Lady  Sellingworth  knew  she  was  speak- 
ing the  truth.  She  remembered  her  own  madnesses,  sunk  away 
in  the  past,  but  still  present  to  her,  gripped  between  the  ten- 
tacles of  memory.  Beryl,  too,  was  then  capable  of  the  great 
follies  which  often  exist  side  by  side  with  great  vanity.  The 
wild  heart  confronted  Lady  Sellingworth  in  another.  And  she 
felt  suddenly  a  deep  sense  of  pity,  a  sense  that  seemed  flooded 
with  tears,  the  pity  that  age  sometimes  feels  for  youth  coming 
on  into  life,  on  into  the  devious  ways,  with  their  ambushes, 
their  traps,  their  pitfalls  full  of  darkness  and  fear.  She  was 
even  conscious  of  a  tenderness  of  age  which  till  now  had  been 
a  rare  visitor  in  her  difficult  nature,  Seymour  Portman  seemed 
near  her,  almost  with  her  in  the  room.  She  could  almost  hear 
his  voice  speaking  of  spring  with  all  its  daffodils. 


456  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

Noblesse  oblige.  In  her  torn  heart  could  she  find  a  nobleness 
sufficient  for  this  occasion?  Seymour's  eyes,  the  terrible  eyes 
of  affection,  which  require  so  much  and  which  sometimes, 
because  of  that,  seem  to  be  endowed  with  creative  power, 
forcing  into  life  that  which  they  long  to  see,  were  surely  upon 
her,  watching  for  her  nobility,  asking  for  it,  demanding  it  of  her. 

She  took  Beryl  Van  Tuyn  by  the  wrist  and  led  her  away  from 
the  shut  door  back  to  the  fire. 

"Sit  down,  Beryl,"  she  said. 

The  girl  looked  at  her  wondering,  feeling  a  great  change  in 
her  and  not  understanding  it. 

"Why?"  she  said. 

"I  have  something  I  must  say  to  you." 

Beryl  dropped  her  muff  and  sat  down.  Lady  Sellingworth 
stood  near  her. 

"Beryl,"  she  said,  "you  think  I  have  been  and  am  your  enemy. 
I  must  show  you  I  am  not.  And  there's  only  one  way.  You 
say  I  can't  bear  to  see  you  happy.  I  don't  think  that's  true.  I 
hope  it  isn't.  I  don't  think  I  wish  unhappiness  to  others,  but, 
even  at  my  age,  I  still  wish  to  have  a  little  happiness  myself. 
There's  never  a  time  in  one's  life,  I  suppose,  when  one  doesn't 
long  to  be  happy.  But  I  don't  want  to  interfere  with  your 
happiness,  I  only  want  to  interfere  between  you  and  a  very 
great  danger,  something  which  would  certainly  bring  disaster 
into  your  life." 

She  stopped  speaking.  She  was  looking  grave,  indeed  almost 
tragically  sad,  but  calm  and  resolute.  The  spots  of  red  had 
faded  out  of  her  cheeks.  There  was  no  fever  in  her  manner. 
Miss  Van  Tuyn's  wonder  grew  as  she  looked  at  her  former 
friend,  who  now  dominated  her,  and  began  to  extort  from  her  a 
strange  and  unwilling  admiration,  which  recalled  to  her  the 
admiration  of  that  past  time  when  she  had  first  met  Alick 
Craven  in  this  drawing-room. 

After  a  long  pause  Lady  Sellingworth  continued,  with  a  sort 
of  strong  simplicity  in  which  there  was  moral  power : 

"Don't  be  angry  with  me,  Beryl,  when  I  tell  you  that  you 
have  one  of  my  dominant  characteristics." 

"What  is  it  ?"  Miss  Van  Tuyn  asked,  in  a  low  voice. 

**Vanity.  You  and  I — we  were  both  born  with  great  vanity 
in  us.    Mine  has  troubled  me,  tortured  me,  been  a  curse  to  me. 


CHAPTER  VI  DECEMBER  LOVE  457 

all  my  life.  It  led  me  at  last  into  a  very  horrible  situation,  in 
which  the — that  man  who  calls  himself  Nicolas  Arabian  was 
mixed  up." 

"But  you  said  you  didn't  know  him,  that  you  had  never 
known  him!" 

"That's  quite  true.  I  have  never  spoken  to  him  in  my  life. 
But  it  was  he  who  led  me  to  change  my  life.  You  must  have 
heard  of  it.  You  must  have  heard  how,  ten  years  ago,  I  sud- 
denly gave  up  everything  and  began  to  lead  a  life  of  retirement." 

"Yes." 

"But  for  that  man  I  should  probably  never  have  done  that. 
But  for  him  I  might  have  been  going  about  London  now  with 
dyed  hair,  pretending  to  be  ten  or  fifteen  years  younger  than  I 
really  am." 

"But — if  you  never  knew  him  ?     I  can't  understand !" 

"Did  you  ever  hear  that  about  ten  years  ago  I  lost  a  great 
quantity  of  jewels,  that  they  were  stolen  out  of  a  train  at  the 
Gare  du  Nord  in  Paris  ?" 

A  look  of  fear,  almost  of  horror,  came  into  Beryl  Van  Tuyn's 
eyes.    She  got  up  from  the  sofa  on  which  she  was  sitting. 

"Adela !" 

Already  she  knew  what  was  coming,  what  Lady  Sellingworth 
was  going  to  tell  her.  She  even  knew  the  very  words  Lady 
Sellingworth  was  about  to  say,  and  when  she  heard  them  it  was 
as  if  she  herself  had  spoken  them. 

"That  man  stole  them." 

"Adela !" 

"You  said  that  he  had  money,  that  he  was  not  obliged  to  work. 
Now  you  know  why  he  has  money  and  what  his  work  is." 

"Adela !    But— but  why  didn't  you " 

Her  voice  faded  away. 

"I  couldn't.    My  hands  were  tied." 

"How  ?" 

"He  caught  me  in  a  trap.  He  laid  a  bait  for  my  vanity,  Beryl, 
and  I  took  the  bait." 

"But  what  was  it?" 

"He  made  me  believe  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  me.  I  was  a 
woman  of  fifty  and  he  made  me  believe  that?  That  is  how 
vanity  leads  us !" 

And  then  she  told  the  girl  all  the  truth  about  Arabian  and 


458  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

herself,  all  the  truth  of  ten  years  ago.  Having  made  up  her 
mind,  having  begun  to  do  what  Seymour  would  have  called  "the 
right  thing,"  she  did  not  hesitate,  did  not  spare  herself.  She 
went  on  to  the  bitter  end.  But  the  strange,  the  wonderful  thing 
was  that  it  was  less  bitter  than  she  had  thought  it  must  be. 
While  she  was  speaking,  while  she  was  exposing  her  own  folly, 
her  own  shame  even,  she  began  to  feel  a  sense  of  relief.  She 
gave  the  secret  which  she  had  kept  for  ten  years  to  this  girl  who 
had  treated  her  cruelly,  and  in  the  giving,  instead  of  abject 
humiliation,  she  was  conscious  of  liberation.  Her  mind  seemed 
to  be  released  from  a  long  bondage.  Her  soul  seemed  to  breathe 
more  freely,  like  a  live  thing  let  out  from  a  close  prison  into  the 
air.  A  strange  feeling  of  being  at  peace  with  herself  came  to 
her  and  comforted  her. 

"And  that  is  all,  Beryl!"  she  said  at  last.  "Now,  do  you 
forgive  me?" 

Beryl  had  been  standing  quite  still,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on 
Lady  Sellingworth.  She  had  listened  without  moving.  Even 
her  hands  had  been  still,  folded  together  in  front  of  her.  But  the 
colour  had  come  and  gone  in  her  face  as  she  had  listened,  as  it  can 
only  come  and  go  in  a  face  that  is  young.  She  was  very  pale  now. 
Even  her  lips  looked  much  paler  than  usual.  She  stood  there 
and  did  not  say  anything.  But  her  eyes  were  no  longer  fastened 
on  Lady  Sellingworth's  face.  She  was  looking  down  now; 
Lady  Sellingworth  could  not  see  her  eyes,  but  only  her  white 
eyelids  fringed  with  long  lashes  which  curled  up  at  the  ends. 

"I  had  to  tell  you,  Beryl." 

Still  the  girl  said  nothing  and  did  not  move.  But  Lady 
Sellingworth  saw  two  tears  come  from  under  her  eyelids  and 
fall  down  her  face.  Other  tears  followed.  She  did  not  take 
out  her  handkerchief  to  wipe  them  away.  She  did  not  seem  to 
be  aware  of  them,  or  of  any  necessity  for  trying  to  stop  them 
from  coming.  And  then  she  began  to  shake.  She  shook  from 
head  to  foot,  still  keeping  her  hands  folded.  And  that — the 
folded  hands — made  her  look  like  a  tall  doll  shaking.  There 
was  something  so  peculiar  and  horrible  in  the  contrast  between 
her  attitude  and  the  evident  agony  which  was  convulsing  her 
that  for  a  moment  Lady  Sellingworth  felt  helpless,  did  not  dare 
to  speak  to  her  or  to  touch  her.  It  was  impossible  to  tell 
whether  she  was  shaken  by  anger,  by  self-pity,  or  by  the  despair 


CHAPTER  VI  DECEMBER  LOVE  459 

of  youth  deceived  and  outraged.  But  as  she  continued  to  weep, 
and  as  her  body  went  on  trembhng,  Lady  Sellingworth  at  last 
could  not  bear  it  any  longer.  She  felt  that  she  must  do  some- 
thing, must  try  to  help  her,  and  she  put  a  hand  on  the  girl's 
shoulder  gently. 

"Beryl !"  she  said.  "Beryl !  I  didn't  want  to  hurt  you,  but  I 
had  to  tell  you," 

The  girl  suddenly  turned  and  caught  her  by  the  arms. 

"Oh,  Adela !"  she  said,  in  a  faltering  voice.  "No  other  woman 
would  have — how  could  you?    Oh,  how  could  you?" 

Her  face  was  distorted.  She  looked  at  Lady  Sellingworth 
with  eyes  that  were  bloodshot  behind  their  tears. 

"Both  of  us!  Both  of  us!"  she  exclaimed.  "It's  too  hor- 
rible !" 

She  shuddered. 

"But  I  had  to  tell  you !" 

"No  other  woman  would  have  been  able  to!  No  other 
woman !" 

She  still  held  Lady  Sellingworth's  arms. 

"/  couldn't  have  done  it!  I  should  have  let  you  go  on.  _I 
shouldn't  have  written — I  shouldn't  have  spoken!  And  I  have 
been  alone  with  him.    I  have  let  him — I  have  let  him " 

"Beryl !" 

"No,  no !    It  isn't  too  late !    Don't  be  afraid !" 

"Thank  God !"  said  Lady  Sellingworth. 

She  had  no  feeling  of  self-pity  now.  All  her  compassion  for 
herself  was  obscured  for  the  moment  in  compassion  for  the 
girl.  The  years  at  last  were  helping  her,  those  years  which  so 
often  had  brought  her  misery. 

"But  what  am  I  to  do  ?  I'm  afraid  of  him.  Oh,  do  help  me !" 

"Hush,  Beryl!  What  can  he  do?  There's  nothing  to  be 
afraid  of." 

"But  I've  nobody!  I'm  all  alone.  Fanny  is  no  use.  And  he 
means — he  won't  give  it  up.  I  know  he  won't  give  it  up.  I  was 
always  afraid  in  a  way.  I  always  had  suspicions,  but  I  trampled 
them  down.  Dick  Garstin  told  me,  but  I  would  not  listen. 
Dick  Garstin  showed  me  what  he  was." 

"How  could  he?" 

"He  did.  It's  there  in  the  studio — that  horrible  picture,  the  real 
man,  the  man  I  wouldn't  see.    But  I  must  always  have  known 


460  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

what  he  was.    Something  in  me  must  ahvays  have  known!" 

She  seemed  to  make  a  violent  effort  to  recover  her  self- 
control.  She  dropped  her  hands,  took  out  a  handkerchief  and 
wiped  the  tears  from  her  eyes.  Then  she  went  to  the  sofa 
where  her  muff  was  lying,  drew  out  the  letter  that  was  in  it, 
went  over  to  the  fireplace  and  threw  the  letter  into  the  flames. 

"Adela,"  she  said,  "I've  been  a  beast  to  you.  You  know — my 
last  visit  to  you.  You're  brave.  I  suppose  I  always  felt  there  was 
something  fine  in  you,  but  I  didn't  know  how  fine  you  could  be. 
All  I  can  do  in  return  is  this — never  to  tell.  It  isn't  much,  is  it  ?" 

"It's  quite  enough,  Beryl." 

"There  isn't  anything  else  I  can  do,  is  there  ?" 

Her  eyes  were  asking  a  question.  Lady  Sellingworth  met 
them  calmly,  earnestly.  She  knew  vv*hat  the  girl  was  thinking  at 
that  moment.    She  was  thinking  of  Alick  Craven. 

"No,  there  isn't  anything  else." 

"Are  you  quite  sure,  Adela  ?    I  owe  you  a  great  deal.    I  may 

forget  it.     One  never  knows.     And  I  suppose  I'm  horribly 

selfish.    But  if  I  make  you  a  promise  now  I'll  keep  it.    If  you 

want  me  to  promise  anything,  tell  me  now." 

"But  I  don't  want  anything  from  you,"  said  Lady  Sellingworth. 

She  said  it  very  quietly,  without  emotion.  There  was  even  a 
coldness  in  her  voice. 

The  great  effort  she  had  just  made  seemed  to  have  changed  her. 
By  making  it  she  felt  as  if,  unwittingly,  she  had  built  up  an  insur- 
mountable barrier  between  herself  and  youth.  She  had  not  known, 
perhaps,  what  she  was  doing,  but  now,  suddenly,  she  knew. 

/  grow  too  old  a  comrade,  let  us  part.    Pass  thou  away! 

The  words  ran  in  her  mind.  How  often  she  had  thought  of 
them !  How  often  she  had  struggled  with  that  wild  heart  which 
God  had  given  her,  which  in  a  way  she  clung  to  desperately, 
and  yet  which,  as  she  had  long  known,  she  ought  to  give  up. 
She  was  too  old  a  comrade  for  that  wild  heart,  and  now  surely 
sl-ie  was  saying  farewell  to  it — this  time  a  final  farewell.  For 
she  had  felt,  had  really  felt  as  if  in  her  very  entrails,  for  a 
moment  the  appeal  of  youth.  And  she  could  never  forget  that. 
She  could  not  forget  because  she  had  responded  to  that  appeal, 
and,  having  responded,  she  knew  that  she  could  never  struggle 
against  youth  again. 

Beryl  had  conquered  her  without  knowing  it. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  winter  night  was  dark  when  Miss  Van  Tuyn  stood  in 
the  hall  of  Lady  Sellingworth's  house  waiting  for  the 
footman  to  find  a  taxicab  for  her.  A  big  fire  was  burning  on 
the  hearth ;  the  old-fashioned  hooded  chair  stood  beside  it ;  and 
presently,  as  no  taxicab  came,  she  went  to  the  chair  and  sat 
down  in  it.  She  felt  very  tired.  Her  whole  body  seemed  to 
have  been  weakened  by  what  she  had  just  been  through.  But 
her  mind  was  charged  with  intense  vitality.  The  thoughts 
galloped  through  it,  and  they  were  dark  as  the  night.  The  cold 
air  of  winter  stole  in  through  the  doorway  of  the  hall.  She 
felt  it  and  shivered  as  she  lay  back  in  the  great  chair  which,  with 
its  walls  and  roof,  was  like  a  hiding-place;  and  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life  she  longed  to  hide  herself.  She  had  never 
before  known  acute  fear — fear  that  was  based  on  ascertained 
facts.     But  she  knew  it  now. 

The  young  footman  stood  on  the  doorstep  bareheaded,  looking 
this  way  and  that  into  the  blackness,  and  she  sat  waiting.  In 
her  independence  she  had  never  before  known  what  it  was  to 
feel  abandoned  to  loneliness.  She  had  always  enjoyed  her 
freedom.  Now  she  felt  a  great  longing  to  cling  to  someone,  to 
be  protected,  to  lean  on  somebody  who  was  much  stronger  than 
herself,  and  who  would  defend  her  against  any  attack.  At  that 
moment  she  envied  Lady  Sellingworth  safe  above  stairs  in  this 
silent  and  beautiful  house,  which  was  like  a  stronghold.  She 
even  envied,  or  thought  she  did,  Lady  Sellingworth  for  her 
years.  In  old  age  there  was  surely  a  security  that  youth  could 
never  have.  For  the  riot  of  life  was  over  and  the  greatest 
dangers  were  past. 

She  longed  to  stay  with  Adela  that  night.  She  thought  of  her 
as  security.  But  she  dared  not  expect  anything  more  from 
Adela.  She  had  already  received  a  gift  which  she  had  surely 
not  deserved,  a  gift  which  few  women,  if  indeed  any  other 
woman,  would  have  given  her. 

461 


462  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

She  looked  towards  the  open  door  and  saw  the  footman's  flat 
back,  and  narrow  head  covered  with  carefully  plastered  hair. 
He  was  calling  now  with  both  hands  to  his  mouth :  "Taxi ! 
Taxi !" 

But  there  came  no  sound  of  wheels  in  the  night,  and  she  put 
her  hands  on  the  sides  of  the  chair  and  got  up. 

"Can't  you  find  a  cab  ?" 

"No,  ma'am.  I'm  very  sorry,  but  there  doesn't  seem  to  be 
one  about.    Shall  I  go  to  the  nearest  cab  rank  ?" 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  hesitated.  Then  she  determined  to  fight  her 
fear. 

"It  isn't  raining,  is  it?" 

"No,  ma'am." 

"Then  I'll  walk.  It's  not  far.  I  shall  pick  up  a  cab  on  the 
way  probably." 

The  young  man  looked  relieved  and  stood  aside  to  let  her  go 
out.  He  watched  her  as  she  walked  down  the  square  towards 
the  block  of  flats  which  towered  up  where  the  pavement  turned 
at  right  angles.  The  light  from  the  hall  shone  out  and  made  a 
patch  of  yellow  about  his  feet.  He  noticed  presently  that  the 
girl  he  was  watching  turned  her  head  and  looked  back,  almost 
as  if  she  were  hesitating.  Then  she  walked  on  resolutely,  and 
he  stepped  in  and  shut  the  door. 

"Wonder  if  she's  afraid  of  going  like  that  all  by  herself !"  he 
thought.  "I  only  wish  she  was  my  class.  I  wouldn't  mind  see- 
ing her  home." 

Just  before  she  was  out  of  sight  of  Lady  Sellingworth's 
house  Miss  Van  Tuyn  looked  back  again.  The  light  was  gone. 
She  knew  that  the  door  was  shut  and  she  shivered.  She  felt 
shut  out.  What  was  she  going  to  do  ?  She  was  going  back  to 
Claridge's  of  course.  But — after  that?  She  longed  to  take 
counsel  wth  someone,  with  someone  who  was  strong  and  clear 
brained,  and  who  really  cared  for  her.  But  who  did  care  for 
her?  Perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was  the  victim 
of  sentimentality,  of  what  she  would  have  thought  of  certainly 
as  sentimentality  in  another.  A  sort  of  yearning  for  affection 
came  to  her.  A  wave  of  self-pity  swept  over  her.  Her  inde- 
pendence of  spirit  was  in  abeyance  or  dead.  Arabian,  it  seemed, 
had  struck  her  down  to  the  ground.  She  felt  humiliated,  terri- 
fied, and  strangely,  horribly  young,  like  a  child  almost  who  had 


CHAPTER  vii  DECEMBER  LOVE  463 

been  cruelly  treated.  She  thought  of  her  dead  father.  If  he 
had  been  alive  and  near  could  she  have  gone  to  him  ?  No ;  for 
years  he  had  not  cared  very  much  about  her.  He  had  been 
kind,  had  given  her  plenty  of  money,  but  he  had  been  immersed 
in  pleasures  and  had  always  been  in  the  hands  of  some  woman 
or  other.  He  had  not  really  loved  her.  No  one,  she  thought 
with  desperation,  had  ever  really  loved  her.  She  did  not  ask 
herself  whether  that  was  her  fault,  whether  she  had  ever  given 
to  anyone  what  she  wanted  so  terribly  now,  whether  she  had 
any  right  to  expect  generosity  of  feeling  when  she  herself  was 
niggardly.  She  was  stricken  in  her  vanity  and,  because  of  that, 
she  had  come  down  to  the  dust. 

It  was  frightful  to  her  to  think,  to  be  obliged  to  think,  that 
Arabian  all  this  time  had  looked  upon  her  as  a  prey,  had 
marked  her  down  as  a  prey.  She  understood  everything  now, 
his  fixed  gaze  at  her  in  the  Cafe  Royal  when  she  had  seen  him 
for  the  first  time,  his  coming  to  Garstin's  studio,  his  subtle 
acting  through  the  early  days  of  their  acquaintance.  She  under- 
stood his  careful  self -repression,  his  reticence,  his  evident 
reluctance  to  be  painted,  overcome  no  doubt  by  two  desires — the 
desire  to  become  intimate  with  her,  and  the  desire  to  possess 
eventually  a  piece  of  work  that  would  be  worth  a  great  deal  of 
money.  She  understood  his  determination  not  to  allow  his  por- 
trait to  be  exhibited.  She  understood  the  look  in  his  face  when 
she  had  told  him  of  her  father's  sudden  death,  the  change  in  his 
demeanour  to  her  since  he  had  known  that  fact,  the  desire  to 
hurry  things  on,  to  sweep  her  off  her  feet.  She  understood — 
ah,  how  she  understood ! — why  he  had  not  wished  Adela  to  join 
them  in  the  restaurant !  But  what  enormous  self-possession  the 
man  had,  what  craft,  what  patience,  what  intrepidity,  what 
determination !  She  remembered  a  hundred  things  about  him 
now,  all  mixed  up  together,  in  no  coherent  order,  little  things 
at  which  she  had  wondered  but  which  she  wondered  at  no 
longer :  his  distaste  for  Garstin's  portraits  because  they  were  of 
people  belonging  to  the  underworld,  his  understanding  of  them, 
his  calm  contemplation  of  the  victims  of  vice,  his  lack  of  all  pity 
for  them,  his  shrewd  verdict  on  the  judge  which  had  so  delighted 
Garstin.  And  how  he  had  waited  for  her,  how  he  had  known 
how  to  wait !  It  was  frightful — ^that  deliberation  of  his !  Gar- 
stin had  been  right  about  him.     Garstin's  instinct  for  people 


464  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

had  not  betrayed  him.  Although  later  Arabian's  craft  had 
puzzled  even  him  he  had  summed  up  Arabian  at  a  first  glance. 
Garstin  was  diabolically  clever.  If  only  he  were  less  hard,  less 
brutally  cynical,  she  might  perhaps  go  to  him  now.  For  he  had 
in  his  peculiar  way  warned  her  against  Arabian.  She  flushed  in 
the  dark  as  she  thought  of  Garstin's  probable  comments  on  her 
situation  if  he  knew  of  it!  And  yet  Garstin  had  told  her  that 
Arabian  was  in  love  with  her.  Was  that  possible  ?  Her  vanity 
faintly  stirred  like  something,  albeit  feebly,  reviving.  Arabian 
had  marked  her  down  as  a  prey.  She  had  no  doubt  about  that. 
Her  brain  refused  to  doubt  it.  But  perhaps,  mingled  with  his 
hideous  cupidity  of  the  accomplished  adventurer,  the  profes- 
sional thief,  there  was  something  else,  the  lust,  or  even  the 
sensual  love,  of  the  primitive  man.  Perhaps — she  realized  the 
possibility — he  believed  he  had  found  in  her  the  great  oppor- 
tunity of  his  life,  the  unique  chance  of  combining  the  satisfac- 
tion of  his  predatory  instincts  with  the  satisfaction  of  his  inti- 
mate personal  desires,  those  desires  which  he  shared  with  the 
men  who  lived  far  from  the  underworld. 

If  that  were  so — and  suddenly  she  felt  that  it  was  so,  that  she 
had  hit  upon  the  truth — then  she  was  surely  in  great  danger. 
For  Arabian  was  not  the  man  to  let  an  unique  opportunity  slip 
through  his  fingers  without  putting  up  a  tremendous  fight. 

She  must  find  someone  to  help  her  against  this  man.  Again 
she  thought  of  Garstin.  But  he  had  his  own  battle  to  fight,  the 
battle  about  the  portrait.  Then  she  thought  of  Craven.  Ob- 
scurely long  ago — it  seemed  at  least  long  ago — she  had  felt  that 
she  might  some  day  need  Craven  in  her  life.  How  strange  that 
was!  What  mysterious  instinct  had  warned  her  then?  But 
now  Craven  was  hostile  to  her.  How  could  she  go  to  him? 
And  then  there  flashed  upon  her  the  thought : 

"But  I  can't  go  to  anybody !    I  have  promised  Adela." 

That  thought  struck  her  like  a  blow,  struck  her  so  hard  that 
she  stood  still  on  the  pavement.  And  she  realized  immediately 
tliat  either  she  must  do  without  any  help  at  all,  or  that,  in  spite 
of  all  that  had  happened,  she  must  ask  Adela  to  help  her.  For 
she  could  never  break  her  promise  to  Adela.  She  knew  that. 
She  knew  that  she  would  rather  go  under  than  betray  Adela's 
confidence.  Adela  had  done  a  fine  thing,  something  that  she, 
Beryl,  had  not  believed  it  was  in  any  woman  to  do.    She  could 


CHAPTER  VII  DECEMBER  LOVE  465 

not  have  done  it,  but  on  the  other  hand  she  could  not  be  vile.     It 
was  not  in  her  to  be  vile. 

She  heard  a  step  in  the  darkness  and  realized  what  she  was 
doing.  Instantly  she  hurried  on,  almost  running.  She  must 
gain  shelter,  must  be  in  the  midst  of  light,  must  be  between  four 
walls,  must  speak  to  someone  who  knew  her,  and  who  would  not 
do  her  harm.  Claridge's — old  Fanny !  A  few  minutes  later  she 
entered  the  hotel  almost  breathless. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ON  the  following  afternoon  Craven  called  on  Lady  Selling- 
worth  about  five  o'clock  and  was  told  by  the  new  footman 
in  a  rather  determined  manner  that  she  was  "not  at  home." 

"I  hope  her  ladyship  is  quite  well  ?"  he  said. 

"I  believe  so,  sir,"  replied  the  man.  "Her  ladyship  has  been 
out  driving  to-day." 

"Please  give  her  that  card.    Wait  one  moment." 

He  pencilled  on  the  card,  "I  hope  you  are  better. — A.  C," 
gave  it  to  the  man,  and  walked  away,  feeling  sure  that  Lady 
Sellingworth  was  in  the  house  but  did  not  choose  to  see  him. 

In  the  evening  he  received  the  following  note  from  her : 

i8a,  Berkeley  Square, 
Thursday. 

Dear  Mr.  Craven, — How  kind  of  you  to  call  and  to  write  that  little 
message.  I  am  sorry  I  could  not  see  you.  I'm  not  at  all  ill,  and 
have  been  out  driving.  But,  between  you  and  me — for  I  hate  to 
make  a  fuss  about  trifling  matters  of  health — I  feel  rather  played  out. 
Perhaps  it's  partly  old  age !  You  know  nothing  about  that.  Any 
variation  in  my  quiet  life  seems  to  act  as  a  disturbing  influence.  And 
the  restaurant  the  other  night  really  was  terribly  hot.  I  mustn't  go 
there  again,  though  it  is  great  fun.  I  suppose  you  didn't  see  Beryl? 
She  has  been  to  see  me,  but  said  nothing  about  it.  Be  nice  to  her.  I 
don't  think  she  has  many  real  friends  in  London. — Yours  very  sincerely, 

Adela  Sellingworth. 

"What  is  it?  What  has  happened?"  Craven  thought,  as  he 
put  down  the  letter. 

He  felt  that  some  drama  had  been  played  out,  or  partially 
played  out,  within  the  last  days  which  he  did  not  understand, 
which  he  was  not  allowed  to  understand.  Lady  Sellingworth 
chose  to  keep  him  in  the  dark.    Well,  she  had  the  right  to  do 

466 


CHAPTER  VIII  DECEMBER  LOVE  467 

that.  As  he  thought  over  things  he  realized  that  the  heat  in 
the  restaurant  could  certainly  not  have  been  the  sole  reason  of 
her  strange  conduct  on  the  night  when  they  had  dined  together. 
Something  had  upset  her  mentally.  A  physical  reason  only 
could  not  account  for  her  behaviour.  And  again  he  thought  of 
Arabian. 

Instinctively  he  hated  the  man.  Who  was  he?  Where  did 
he  come  from?  Craven  could  not  place  him.  Beyond  feeling 
sure  that  he  was  a  "wrong  'un"  Craven  had  no  very  definite 
opinion  about  him.  He  was  well  dressed,  good  looking — too 
good  looking — and  no  doubt  knew  how  to  behave.  He  might 
even  possibly  be  a  gentleman  of  sorts,  come  to  England  from 
some  exotic  land  where  the  breed  of  gentleman  was  quite  dif- 
ferent from  that  which  prevailed  in  England.  But  he  was  surely 
a  beast.  Craven  detested  his  good  looks,  loathed  his  large  and 
lustrous  brown  eyes.  He  was  the  sort  of  beast  who  did  nothing 
but  make  up  to  women.  Something  inherently  clean  in  Craven 
rejected  the  fellow,  wished  to  drive  him  into  outer  darkness. 

Could  Lady  Sellingworth  know  such  a  man? 

That  seemed  quite  impossible.  Nevertheless,  certain  things 
persistently  suggested  to  Craven  that  at  least  she  had  some 
knowledge  of  Arabian  which  she  was  deliberately  concealing 
from  him.  The  most  salient  of  these  things  was  her  reiterated 
attempt  to  push  him  into  the  company  of  Beryl  Van  Tuyn,  It 
was  impossible  not  to  think  that  Lady  Sellingworth  wished  him 
to  interfere  between  Beryl  Van  Tuyn  and  Arabian.  On  the 
night  of  the  dinner  in  Soho  she  had  attempted  to  persuade  him 
to  go  back  to  the  restaurant  and  to  see  Beryl  home.  And  now 
here  in  this  letter  she  returned  to  the  matter. 

"Be  nice  to  her.  I  don't  think  she  has  many  real  friends  in 
London." 

"Go  to  see  Beryl ;  don't  come  to  see  me," 

Between  the  lines  of  Lady  Selling  worth's  letter  Craven  read 
those  words  and  wondered  at  the  ways  of  women.  But  he  did 
not  mean  to  obey  the  unwritten  command.  And  he  felt  angry 
with  Lady  Sellingworth  for  giving  it  by  implication.  She  might 
have  what  she  considered  a  good  reason  for  her  extraordinary 
behaviour.  But  as  she  did  not  allow  him  to  understand  it,  as 
she  chose  to  keep  him  entirely  in  the  dark,  he  would  be  passive. 
It  was  not  his  business  to  run  after  Beryl  Van  Tuyn,  to  inter- 


468  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

fere  almost  forcibly  between  her  and  another  man,  even  if  that 
man  were  a  scoundrel.  Miss  Van  Tuyn  was  a  free  agent.  She 
had  the  right  to  choose  her  own  friends,  her  own  lovers.  Once 
he  had  decided  that  he  would  not  give  up  his  intimacy  with  her 
in  favour  of  another  man  without  a  struggle,  the  sort  of  polite, 
and  perhaps  subtle,  struggle  which  is  suitable  to  the  twentieth 
century,  when  man  must  only  be  barbarous  in  battle.  But  since 
the  encounter  in  Glebe  Place  he  had  changed  his  mind.  Disgust 
had  seized  him  that  day.  What  could  he  think  but  that  Beryl 
Van  Tuyn  had  deliberately  induced  him  to  come  to  Glebe  Place 
in  order  that  he  might  see  not  only  her  absolute  indifference  to 
him  but  also  her  intimacy  with  Arabian?  Her  reason  for  such 
a  crude  exposure  of  her  lightness  of  conduct  escaped  Craven. 
He  could  not  conceive  what  she  was  up  to,  unless  her  design 
was  to  arouse  in  him  violent  jealousy.  He  did  feel  jealous,  but 
he  was  certainly  not  going  to  show  it.  Besides,  the  delicacy  that 
was  natural  in  him  was  disquieted  by  what  he  thought  of  as  the 
coarseness  of  her  behaviour. 

As  once  more  he  looked  at  Lady  Sellingworth's  letter  he  was 
struck  by  something  final  in  the  wording  of  it.  There  was 
nothing  explicit  in  it.  On  the  contrary,  that  seemed  to  be 
carefully  avoided.  But  the  allusions  to  old  age,  to  disturbing 
influences,  the  decision  not  to  go  again  to  the  Bella  Napoli — 
these  seemed  to  hint  an  intention  to  return  to  a  former  state  of 
being,  to  abandon  a  new  path  of  life.  And  he  remembered  a 
conversation  with  Francis  Braybrooke  at  the  club,  the  interest 
it  had  roused  in  him.  Some  slumbering  feeling  for  romance 
had  been  stirred  in  him,  he  now  thought,  by  that  conversation, 
by  the  information  he  had  received  about  the  distinguished 
recluse  who  had  lived  a  great  life  and  then  suddenly  plunged 
into  old  age  and  complete  retirement. 

Now  he  seemed  to  hear  a  door  shutting,  and  he  was  outside 
it.  She  had  allowed  him  to  enter  her  life  for  a  short  time,  to 
enter  it  almost  intimately.  But  she  was  surely  repenting  of  that 
intimacy.  He  did  not  know  why.  Did  he  ever  know  why  a 
woman  did  this  or  tliat  ?  There  was  no  suggestion  in  the  letter 
that  he  should  ever  call  again,  no  hint  of  a  desire  to  see  him. 
She  was  only  sorry,  politely  sorry,  that  she  had  not  been  able  to 
see  him  that  day.  But  no  reason  was  given  for  the  inability. 
She  had  not  considered  it  necessary  to  give  him  a  reason. 


CHAPTER  vin  DECEMBER  LOVE  469 

When  she  had  gone  abroad  without  letting  him  know  he  had 
said  to  himself  that  his  brief  friendship  with  her  had  come  to  an 
end.  He  felt  that  more  acutely  now.  For  she  had  come  back 
from  abroad.  She  was  close  to  him  in  London.  She  had  tried 
him  again.  Evidently  she  must  have  found  him  wanting.  For 
once  more  she  was  giving  him  up.  Perhaps  he  was  too  young. 
Perhaps  he  bored  her.    He  did  not  know, 

"I  don't  suppose  I  shall  ever  know," 

To  that  conclusion  he  came  at  last.  And  the  sense  of  finality 
grew  in  him,  cold  and  inexorable.  She  was  a  mystery  to  him. 
He  did  not  love  her.  He  had  never  thought  of  her  as  she  had 
thought  of  him.  He  had  never  known  or  suspected  what  her 
feelings  for  him  had  been.  But  he  felt  that  something  which 
might  have  meant  a  good  deal,  even  perhaps  a  great  deal,  to  him 
was  being  withdrawn  from  his  life.  And  this  withdrawal  hurt 
him  and  saddened  him. 

He  locked  up  her  letter  in  his  dispatch  box.  It  would  be  a 
souvenir  of  a  friendship  which  had  seemed  to  promise  much 
and  which  had  ended  abruptly  in  mystery.  He  did  not  answer 
it.  Perhaps,  probably,  he  would  have  done  so  but  for  the  last 
two  sentences  in  it. 


CHAPTER  IX 

AFTER  Lady  Sellingworth  had  written  and  sent  her  note  to 
Craven  she  felt  that  she  was  facing  a  new  phase  of  life, 
and  she  thought  of  it  as  the  last  phase.  Her  sacrifice  of  self  was 
surely  complete  at  last.  She  had  exposed  her  nature  naked  to 
Beryl  Van  Tuyn.  She  had  given  up  her  friendship  with  Alick 
Craven.  There  was  nothing  more  for  her  to  do.  The  call  of 
youth  had  wrung  from  her  a  response  which  created  loneliness 
around  her.  And  now  she  had  to  find  within  herself  the  reso- 
lution to  face  this  loneliness  bravely. 

When  she  wrote  to  Craven  she  had  meant  him  to  understand 
something  of  what  he  had  understood.  Yet  she  did  not  desire 
to  hurt  him.  She  would  not  have  hurt  him  for  the  world. 
Secretly  her  heart  yearned  over  him.  But  she  could  never  let 
him  know  that.  He  might  be  puzzled  by  her  letter.  He  might 
even  resent  it.  But  he  would  soon  forget  any  feeling  roused  by 
it.  And  he  would  no  doubt  soon  forget  her,  the  old  woman  who 
had  been  kind  to  him  for  a  time,  who  had  even  been  almost 
Bohemian  with  him  in  a  very  mild  way,  and  who  had  then 
tacitly  given  him  up.  Perhaps  she  would  see  him  again.  Prob- 
ably she  would.  She  had  no  intention  of  permanently  closing 
her  door  against  him.  But  she  would  not  encourage  him  to 
come.  She  would  never  dine  out  with  him  again.  H  he  came 
he  must  come  as  an  ordinary  caller  at  the  ordinary  caller's  hour. 

Seymour  Portman  called  on  her  in  the  late  afternoon  of  the 
day  when  she  wrote  to  Craven.  Just  before  his  arrival  she 
was  feeling  peculiarly  blank  and  almost  confusedly  dull.  She 
had  gone  through  so  much  recently,  had  lived  at  such  high 
tension,  had  suffered  such  intense  nervous  excitement,  in  the 
restaurant  of  the  Bella  Napoli  and  afterwards,  that  both  body 
and  mind  refused  to  function  quite  normally.  Long  ago  she  had 
stayed  at  St.  Moritz  in  the  depth  of  the  winter,  and  had  got  up 
each  morning  to  greet  the  fierce  blue  sky,  the  blazing  sun,  the 
white  glare  of  the  enveloping  snows  with  a  strange  feeling  of 

470 


CHAPTER  IX  DECEMBER  LOVE  471 

light,  yet  depressed,  detachment.  She  began  to  have  a  similar 
feeling  now.  Far  down  she  was  horribly  sad.  But  her  surface 
seemed  to  say,  "Nothing  matters,  because  I  am  in  an  abnormal 
condition,  and  while  I  remain  in  this  condition  nothing  can 
really  matter  to  me."  Surface  and  depths  were  in  contradic- 
tion, yet  she  was  not  even  fully  aware  of  that.  A  numbness 
held  her,  and  yet  she  was  nervous. 

She  heard  the  drawing-room  door  open  and  Murgatroyd's 
voice  make  the  familiar  announcement;  she  saw  Seymour's 
upright,  soldierly  figure  come  into  the  room ;  she  smiled  a  greet- 
ing to  her  old  friend ;  and  the  sound  of  Murgatroyd's  voice, 
the  sight  of  Seymour  coming  towards  her,  her  own  response  to 
sound  and  sight,  did  not  conquer  the  sensation  of  numbness. 

"Yes,  he  is  here.  He  does  not  forget  me.  He  loves  me  and 
will  always  love  me.    But  what  does  it  matter  ?" 

A  voice  seemed  to  be  saying  that  within  her.  Recently  she 
had  suffered  acutely ;  she  had  made  a  great  effort ;  she  had 
conquered  herself  and  been  conquered  by  another.  And  it  had 
all  been  just  too  much  for  her.  She  was,  she  thought,  like  one 
who  had  fought  desperately  lying  in  deadly  silence  and  calm  on 
the  deserted  battlefield,  utterly  passive  because  utterly  tired  out. 

But  Seymour  did  not  know  that.  He  knew  nothing  of  all 
that  had  happened,  and  Beryl  knew  everything.  And  she 
thought  of  a  picture  called  "Love  locked  out."  It  was  hardly 
fair  that  Seymour  should  know  so  little.  And  while  he  was 
quietly  talking  to  her,  telling  her  little  bits  of  news  which  he 
thought  would  interest  her,  letting  her  in  by  proxy  as  it  were 
to  the  life  of  the  great  world  which  she  had  abandoned  but  in 
which  he  still  played  a  part,  she  was  thinking,  "If  Seymour 
knew  what  I  have  done!  If  I  told  him,  what  would  he  think, 
what  would  he  say?"  He  would  be  pleased,  no  doubt.  But 
would  he  be  surprised?  And  while  she  listened  and  talked  she 
began  to  wonder,  but  always  without  intensity,  about  that. 
Seymour  would  think  she  had  done  the  inevitable  thing,  what 
any  thoroughbred  was  bound  to  do.  And  yet — would  he  be 
surprised  nevertheless  that  she  had  been  able  to  do  it?  She 
began  presently  to  feel  a  slight  tingle  of  curiosity  about  that. 
Had  she,  perhaps,  to  a  certain  extent  justified  Seymour's  fidel- 
ity? He  had  a  splendid  character.  She  certainly  had  not. 
She  had  done  countless  things  that  Seymour  must  have  hated, 


472  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

and  secretly  condemned.  And  yet  he  had  somehow  been  able 
to  go  on  loving  her.  Was  that  because  he  had  always  instinc- 
tively known  that  somewhere  within  her  there  was  a  traditional 
virtue  which  marched  with  his,  that  there  was  a  voice  which 
spoke  his  language? 

"I  suppose,  in  spite  of  all,  in  a  way  we  are  akin,"  she  thought. 

And  she  began  to  wish  vaguely  that  he  knew  it,  that  he  knew 
what  had  happened  between  her  and  Beryl.  As  she  looked  at 
his  "cauliflower,"  bent  towards  her  while  he  talked,  at  his  strong 
soldier's  face,  at  his  faithful  eyes,  the  eyes  of  the  "old  dog," 
she  wished  that  it  were  possible  to  let  Seymour  know  a  little 
bit  of  the  best  of  her.  Not  that  she  was  proud  of  what  she  had 
done.  She  was  too  much  akin  to  Seymour  to  be  proud  of  such 
a  thing.  But  Seymour  would  be  pleased  with  her.  And  it 
would  be  pleasant  to  give  him  pleasure.  It  would  be  like  giving 
him  a  small,  a  very  small,  reward  for  his  long  faithfulness,  for 
his  very  beautiful  and  touching  loyalty. 

"What  is  it,  Adela  ?"  he  said. 

And  a  keen,  searching  look  had  come  into  his  eyes. 

She  smiled  vaguely,  meeting  his  gaze.  She  still  felt  curiously 
detached,  although  she  was  able  to  think  quite  connectedly. 

"What  are  you  thinking  about?" 

"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"I  feel  you  are  not  as  usual  to-day." 

"In  what  way?" 

"Something  has  happened.  I  don't,  of  course,  wish  to  know 
what  it  is.    But  it  has  changed  you,  my  dear." 

"In  what  way  ?"  she  said  again. 

His  reply  startled  her,  set  her  free  from  her  feeling  of  numb- 
ness, of  light  detachment,  from  what  she  called  to  herself  her 
"St.  Moritz  feeling." 

"I  feel  as  if  you  were  coming  into  possession  of  your  true 
self  at  last,"  he  said  very  gravely.  "But  as  if  perhaps  you 
scarcely  knew  it  yet." 

A  slow  red  crept  in  her  cheeks,  which  would  never  know  again 
the  touch  of  the  artificial  red. 

"Dear  Seymour !  My  true  self !  I  wonder  what  sort  of  self 
you  think  that  is  ?" 

"That's  easily  told.  It  is  the  self  I  have  been  loving  for  so 
many  years.    And  now " 


CHAPTER  IX  DECEMBER  LOVE  473 

He  got  up,  still  alert  in  his  movements,  out  of  his  chair. 

"You  are  going?" 

"Yes.  I  have  to  meet  'Better  not'  at  the  Marlborough  to 
talk  over  His  Majesty's  visit  to  Manchester." 

"Ah !"  she  said. 

"Better  not"  was  the  nickname  given  at  Court  to  a  certain 
much-valued  gentleman  about  the  king. 

She  did  not  try  to  detain  Seymour.  But  when  he  had.  gone 
deep  depression  overcame  her.  She  was  the  helpless  victim  of 
a  tremendous  reaction.  So  long  as  she  had  been  in  activity  she 
had  been  able  to  endure.  Even  the  horror  of  the  Bella  Napoli, 
complex  and  cruelly  intense  as  the  probing  of  steel  among  the 
nerves  of  the  body,  she  had  been  able  to  live  through  without 
obvious  flinching.  But  then  there  had  been  something  to  do, 
something  to  deal  with,  something  to  get  the  better  of.  There 
had  been  a  necessity  for  action.  And  now  there  was  nothing. 
Her  activities  were  over.  Seymour  had  broken  the  curious 
spell  which  for  a  short  time  had  bound  her,  and  now  she 
realized  everything  with  unnatural  acuteness. 

What  was  the  good  of  coming  into  possession  of  her  true 
self?  What  was  the  good  of  anything?  Life  was  activity.  Her 
late  close  contact  with  youth,  her  obligation  to  do  something 
difficult  and,  to  her,  tremendous  for  youth  had  taught  her  that 
anew,  and  now  she  must  somehow  reconcile  herself  to  extinc- 
tion. For  this  was  really  what  lay  before  her  now — extinction 
while  still  alive.  Better  surely  to  be  struggling  with  horrors 
than  to  be  merely  dying  away.  She  even  looked  back  to  the 
scene  with  Beryl  and  thought  of  it  almost  with  longing.  For 
how  she  had  lived  in  that  scene!  At  moments  during  it  she 
had  entirely  forgotten  herself. 

Was  that  perhaps  life,  the  only  real  life — entire  forgetful- 
ness  of  self  ?  If  so,  how  seldom  she  had  lived  !  In  all  her  sixty 
years,  in  all  her  so-called  "great  life,"  for  how  short  a  time 
she  had  lived ! 

She  had  just  then,  even  in  the  midst  of  her  reaction,  a  feeling 
of  illumination.  She  was  in  darkness,  but  around  the  dark- 
ness, as  if  enclosing  it  and  her  in  it,  there  was  light,  a  light  she 
had  never  been  really  aware  of  till  now.  Something  within  her 
said: 

"I  see!" 


474  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

She  went  up  to  her  bedroom,  shut  herself  in,  went  to  a  book- 
shelf, and  took  down  a  Bible  which  stood  on  it.  She  turned  its 
pages  till  she  came  to  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount.  Then  she 
began  to  read.  And  presently,  as  she  read,  a  queer  thought 
came  to  her.    "If  the  'old  guard'  could  see  me  now !" 

It  was  late  when  she  stopped  reading.  She  shut  up  the  Holy 
Book,  put  it  back  on  the  shelf,  and  took  down  a  volume  of 
poems.  And  after  reading  the  Bible  she  read  the  poem  of  the 
Wild  Heart.  And  then  she  read  nothing  more.  But  her  read- 
ing had  waked  up  in  her  a  longing  which  was  not  familiar  to 
her  except  in  connexion  with  what  she  supposed  was  the  baser 
part  of  her,  the  part  which  had  troubled,  had  even  tortured 
her  so  many  times  in  her  life.  She  had  often  longed  to  do 
things  for  men  whom  she  loved,  or  fancied  she  loved.  Now  she 
was  conscious  of  a  yearning  more  altruistic.  She  wished  to  be 
purely  unselfish,  if  that  were  ever  possible.  And  she  believed 
it  to  be  possible.  For  was  not  Seymour  unselfish?  He  surely 
often  forgot  himself  in  her.  But  she  had  always  remembered 
herself  in  others. 

"What  a  monstrous  egoist  I  have  been  all  my  life!"  she 
thought,  with  a  sense  of  despair.  "Only  once  have  I  acted  with 
a  purely  unselfish  motive,  and  that  was  with  Beryl.  Yes,  Beryl 
gave  me  the  one  opportunity  I  took  advantage  of.  And  now  it 
is  all  over.  Everything  is  finished.  It  is  too  late  to  try  a  new 
way  of  living." 

She  forgot  many  little  sacrifices  she  had  made  in  the  war,  or 
she  did  not  count  them  to  her  credit.  For  patriotism  in  war 
seemed  as  natural  to  her  as  drawing  breath.  She  was  thinking 
of  her  personal  life  in  connexion  with  individuals.  She  had 
once  been  unselfish — for  Beryl.  That  was  over.  Everything 
was  over.  And  yet  Seymour  had  said  that  he  felt  as  if  at  last 
she  were  coming  into  possession  of  her  true  self.  So  he  had 
noticed  a  difference.  It  was  as  if  what  she  had  been  able  to  do 
for  Beryl  had  subtly  altered  her.  But  there  was  nothing  more 
for  her  to  do. 

That  evening  she  felt  loneliness  as  she  had  never  felt  it  be- 
fore. A  sort  of  mental  nausea  seized  her  as  she  dressed  for 
her  solitary  dinner.  For  whom  was  she  changing  her  gown? 
For  Murgatroyd !  How  grotesque  the  unwritten  regulations 
of  a  life  like  hers  were!    Why  go  down  to  dinner  at  all?    She 


CHAPTER  IX  DECEMBER  LOVE  475 

had  no  appetite.  Nevertheless,  everything  was  done  in  due 
order.  Her  hair  was  arranged.  Cecile  looked  at  her  critically 
to  see  that  everything  was  right.  For  Murgatroyd !  Even  a 
jewel  was  brought  to  be  pinned  in  to  the  front  of  her  gown.  It 
was  a  big  ruby  surrounded  by  diamonds,  and  as  it  flashed  in  the 
light  it  brought  back  to  her  the  hideous  memory  of  Arabian. 

What  would  he  do  now?  It  was  very  strange  that  after 
ten  years  she  had  been  able,  indeed  she  had  been  obliged,  to 
revengE  herself  upon  him,  this  man  whom  she  had  never  known, 
to  whom  she  had  never  even  spoken.  And  she  had  never 
dreamed  of  revenge.  She  had  let  him  go  with  his  prey.  Prob- 
ably her  jewels  had  enabled  him  to  live  as  he  wished  to  live  for 
years.  And  now  she  had  paid  him  back!  Did  Fate  work 
blindly,  or  was  there  a  terribly  subtle  and  inexorable  plan  at 
work  through  all  human  life?" 

"Miladi  does  not  like  to  wear  this  ruby  ?"  said  Cecile. 

"Why  do  you  say  that  ?" 

"Miladi  looks  at  it  so  strangely!" 

"It  reminds  me  of  something.  Yes,  I  will  wear  it  to-night. 
But  what's  the  good?" 

"Miladi ?" 

"No  one  will  see  it  but  myself." 

"Miladi  should  go  out  more,  much  more,  and  receive  com- 
pany here." 

"Perhaps  I'll  give  a  series  of  dinners,"  said  Lady  Selling- 
worth  with  a  smile. 

And  she  turned  away  and  went  down. 

Murgatroyd  and  a  footman  were  waiting  for  her.  On  the 
dining  table  was  the  menu  telling  her  what  she  had  to  eat,  what 
her  cook  had  been,  and  was,  busy  over  in  the  kitchen.  She 
sat  down  at  the  big  table,  picked  up  the  menu  and  glanced 
at  it.  But  she  did  not  see  what  was  written  on  it.'  She  saw 
only  in  imagination  the  years  before  her,  perhaps  five  years, 
perhaps  ten,  perhaps  even  more.  For  her  race  was  a  long  living 
one.  She  might,  like  some  of  her  forbears,  live  to  be  very  old. 
Ten  years  more  of  dinners  like  this  one  in  Berkeley  Square! 
Could  that  be  endured?  As  she  sipped  her  soup  she  thought 
of  travelling.  She  might  shut  up  the  house,  go  over  the  seas, 
wander  through  the  world.  There  were  things  to  be  seen. 
Nature  spread  her  infinite  variety  for  the  sons  and  the  daughters 


476  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

of  men.  She  might  advertise  in  The  Times  for  a  travelHng 
companion.  There  would  be  plenty  of  answers.  Or  she  might 
get  one  of  her  many  acquaintances  to  come  with  her,  some 
pleasant  woman  who  would  not  talk  too  much,  or  too  little. 

Fish! 

When,  finally,  some  fruit  had  been  put  before  her,  and  Mur- 
gatroyd  and  the  footman  had  left  the  room,  she  remained — 
so  she  thought  of  it — like  a  mummy  in  the  tomb  which  be- 
longed to  her.  And  presently  through  the  profound  silence 
she  heard  the  hoot  of  a  motor-horn.  Someone  going  some- 
where !  Someone  who  had  something  to  do,  somewhere  lo 
go !  Someone  from  whom  all  the  activities  had  not  passed 
away  for  ever ! 

The  motor-horn  sounded  again  nearer.  Now  she  heard  a 
faint  sound  of  wheels.  The  car  was  coming  down  her  side 
of  the  Square.  The  buzz  of  the  machine  reached  her  ears  now, 
then  the  grinding  of  brakes.  The  car  had  stopped  somewhere 
close  by,  at  the  next  house  perhaps. 

She  heard  an  electric  bell.  That  was  in  her  own  house. 
Then  the  car  had  stopped  at  her  door. 

She  listened,  and  immediately  heard  a  step  in  the  hall.  Mur- 
gatroyd,  or  the  footman,  was  going  to  the  door.  She  wondered 
who  the  caller  could  be.  Possibly  Seymour!  But  he  never 
came  at  that  hour. 

A  moment  later  Murgatroyd  appeared  in  the  room. 

"Miss  Van  Tuyn  has  called,  my  lady,  and  begs  you  to  see 
her." 

"Miss  Van  Tuyn!  Ask  her — take  her  up  to  the  drawing- 
room,  please.     I  am  just  finishing.     I  will  come  in  a  minute." 

"Yes,  my  lady." 

Murgatroyd  went  out  and  shut  the  door  behind  him. 

Then  Lady  Sellingworth  took  a  peach  from  a  dish  in  front 
of  her  and  began  to  peel  it.  She  had  not  intended  to  eat  any 
fruit  before  Murgatroyd  had  given  her  this  news.  But  she  felt 
that  she  must  have  a  few  minutes  by  herself.  Not  long  ago  she 
had  been  appalled  by  the  thought  of  extinction:  had  yearned 
for  activity,  had  even  desired  opportunities  for  unselfish- 
ness. Now,  suddenly,  she  was  afraid,  and  clung  to  her  lone- 
liness. For  she  felt  certain  that  Beryl  had  come  to  ask  her 
to  do  something  in  connexion  with  Arabian.     Something  must 


CHAPTER  Lx  DECEMBER  LOVE  477 

have  happened  since  their  interview  yesterday,  and  the  girl  had 
come  to  her  to  ask  her  help. 

She  ate  the  peach  very  slowly,  scarcely  tasting  it.  At  last 
it  was  finished,  and  she  got  up  from  the  table.  She  must  not 
keep  Beryl  waiting  any  longer.  She  must  go  upstairs.  But  she 
went  reluctantly,  almost  in  fear,  wondering,  dreading  what  was 
coming  upon  her. 

When  she  opened  the  drawing-room  door  she  saw  Beryl 
standing  by  the  fire. 

"Adela!" 

Beryl  came  forward  hurriedly  with  a  nervous  manner  Lady 
Sellingworth  had  never  noticed  in  her  before.  Her  face  was 
very  pale.  There  were  dark  rings  under  her  eyes.  She  looked 
apprehensive,  distracted  even. 

"Do  forgive  me  for  bursting  in  on  you  like  this  at  such  an 
hour !" 

"Of  course !" 

She  took  Beryl's  hand.  It  was  hot,  and  clasped  hers  with  a 
closeness  that  was  almost  violent. 

"What  is  it?    Is  anything  the  matter?" 

"I  want  your  advice.  I  don't — I  don't  quite  know  what  to  do. 
You  see,  there's  nobody  but  you  I  can  come  to.  I  know  I  have 
no  right — I  have  no  claim  upon  you.  You  have  been  so  good 
to  me  already.  No  other  woman  would  have  done  what  you 
have  done.  But  you  see,  I  promised  never  to — I  can't  speak 
to  anyone  else.  I  might  have  gone  to  Dick  Garstin  perhaps. 
...  I  don't  know !    But  as  it  is  I  can't  speak  to  a  soul  but  you." 

"Is  it  something  about  that  man?" 

"Yes.     I'm  afraid  of  him." 

"Why?" 

"I'm  sure  he  doesn't  mean  to — I'm  sure  he  won't  give  me  up 
easily.    I  know  he  won't !" 

"Sit  down.  Beryl." 

"Yes— may  I  ?" 

"Have  you  seen  him?" 

"Oh,  no— no !" 

"Has  he  written?" 

"Yes.  And  he  has  called  to-day.  Last  night  directly  I  got 
back  to  the  hotel  I  gave  orders  at  the  bureau  that  if  he  called 
they  were  to  say  'not  at  home.'  " 


478  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

"Well  then " 


"But  he  got  in !" 

"How  could  he?" 

"When  they  said  I  was  out  he  asked  for  Fanny — Fanny 
Cronin,  my  companion.  He  sent  up  his  card  to  her,  and  as  I 
hadn't  spoken  to  her — you  know  I  promised  not  to  say  anything 
— she  told  them  to  let  him  come  up.     She  likes  him !" 

"And  were  you  in  the  hotel  ?" 

"No,  thank  God  I  was  really  out.  But  I  came  back  while 
he  was  still  there." 

"Then " 

"No,  I  didn't  see  him,  as  I  told  you.  When  I  was  just  going 
up  in  the  lift,  something — it  was  almostlike  second  sight,  I 
think — ^prompted  me  to  go  to  the  bureau  and  ask  if  anyone 
was  in  our  rooms.  And  they  told  me  he  was  with  Fanny,  had 
been  with  her  for  over  an  hour." 

"What  did  you  do?" 

"I  went  out  at  once.  I  called  on  one  or  two  people,  I  stayed 
out  till  nearly  half-past  seven.  I  walked  about  in  the  dark.  I 
was  afraid  to  go  near  the  hotel.  It  was  horrible.  Finally  I 
thought  he  must  have  gone  and  I  ventured  to  go  back.  I  hur- 
ried through  the  hall.  The  lift  was  there.  I  went  into  it  at 
once.  I  didn't  look  round.  I  was  afraid  he  might  have  come 
down  and  be  waiting  about  for  me.  When  I  got  to  our  apart- 
ment I  went  straight  to  my  bedroom  and  rang  for  my  maid. 
She  said  he  was  gone.  Then  I  went  to  Fanny.  He  had  been 
having  tea  with  her  and  had  stayed  two  hours.  He  had — she's 
very  foolish,  poor  old  thing! — he  had  completely  fascinated 
her." 

Suddenly  she  blushed  violently. 

"I  have  no  right  to  say  that  about  Fanny.  But  I  mean  he 
had  laid  himself  out  to " 

"I  quite  understand,"  said  Lady  Sellingworth,  with  a  sort 
of  awkward  dryness  which  she  could  not  evade  though  she 
hated  herself  for  it. 

It  was  hideous,  she  felt,  being  mixed  up  with  this  old  Miss 
Cronin  and  Beryl  Van  Tuyn  in  a  sort  of  horrible  sisterhood 
of  victims  of  this  vile  man's  fascination.  Her  flesh  crept  at 
the  indignity  of  it,  and  all  her  patrician  pride  revolted  at  being 
numbered  among  his  probably  innumerable  conquests.    At  that 


CHAPTER  IX  DECEMBER  LOVE  479 

moment  she  felt  punished  for  having  so  often  in  her  life  be- 
trayed the  best  part  of  her  nature. 

"I  quite  understand,  Beryl.    You  need  not  explain." 

"No." 

There  was  an  unpleasant  silence  during  which  neither  woman 
looked  at  the  other.    Then  Lady  Sellingworth  said: 

"But  you  haven't  told  me  everything.  And  if  I  am  to — if 
anything  is  to  be  done,  can  be  done,  I  suppose  you  had  better 
tell  me  everything." 

"Yes.  I  want  to.  I  must.  Mr. — he  told  Fanny  that  I  was 
— that  I  had  promised  to  marry  him." 

"Ah!" 

"He  told  her  that  I  had  been  to  his  flat  on  the  very  day  that 
I  had  heard  of  my  father's  death  and  since.  He  promised 
Fanny  that — that  when  we  were  married  she  should  have  a 
home  with  us.  Isn't  it  horrible?  Fanny  has  been  afraid  of 
my  marrying  because,  you  see,  she  depends  in  a  way  on  me. 
She  doesn't  want  to  leave  me.     She's  got  accustomed " 

"Yes— yes." 

"He  told  her  that  people  knew  about  my  visits  to  him.  Mrs. 
Birchington  lives  in  the  flat  opposite  his,  and  she  knows.  He 
contrived  that  she  should  know.    I  realize  that  now." 

"A  man  like  that  lays  his  plans  carefully." 

"Yes.  Oh — how  humiliating  it  all  is!  Fanny  was  enthusi- 
astic about  him." 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"I  was  very  careful.  Because  I  promised  you !  But  I  know 
she  thinks — she  must  think  I  am  in  love  with  him.  But  that 
doesn't  matter.  Only  it  makes  things  difficult.  But  it  isn't 
that  which  brought  me  here.    I'm  afraid  of  him." 

"Have  you  ever  written  to  him  ?" 

"No— never  I" 

"But  you  say  he  has  written  to  you." 

"Yes.  When  he  left  Fanny  he  wrote  a  letter  in  the  hotel 
and  had  it  sent  up  to  my  room.  Fanny  gave  it  me  just  now. 
I've  got  it  here." 

She  drew  a  letter  out  of  a  little  bag  she  had  brought  with  her. 

"I — I  can't  show  it " 

"Oh— please— I  don't  want  to  see  it!"  said  Lady  Selling- 
worth,  with  an  irrepressible  shrinking  of  disgust. 


480  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

"No,  of  course  not.  Adela,  please  don't  think  I  imagined 
you  did !  But  I  must  tell  you — I  know  you  hate  all  this.  You 
must  hate  it.  Oh,  do  forgive  me  for  coming  here!  I  know 
I  oughtn't  to.    But  I'm  afraid — I'm  afraid  of  hinij!" 

"Why  are  you  so  afraid?    What  can  he  do?" 

"A  man  like  that  might  do  anything !" 

"Are  you  sure?  I  think  such  a  man  is  probably  a  coward 
at  heart." 

But  Miss  Van  Tuyn  shook  her  head. 

"He's  got  nerves  of  steel.    I  am  sure  of  it.    Besides " 

She  paused,  and  a  strange  conscious  look  came  into  her  face — 
a  look  which  Lady  Sellingworth  did  not  understand. 

"Yes?"  she  said  at  last,  as  Beryl  did  not  speak. 

"Adela,  I  know  you  will  not  believe  me.  I  know — you  spoke 
once  of  my  being  very  vain,  but — but  there  are  things  a  girl 
does  know  about  a  man,  really  there  are!  They  may  seem 
ridiculous,  crazy  to  others,  but " 

"What  is  it.  Beryl?" 

"I  believe  besides  wanting  my  money  he  wants  me.  That's 
why  I'm  afraid.  If  it  weren't  for  that  I — ^perhaps  I  shouldn't 
have  come  to-night.    Can  you  believe  it?" 

Lady  Sellingworth  looked  at  the  girl  with  eyes  which  in 
spite  of  herself,  were  hard.  She  knew  they  were  hard,  but 
she  could  not  help  it.    Then  she  said : 

"Yes.    I  can  believe  it." 

"And  that  may — he  may  persist  in  spite  of  all.  He  may 
refuse  to  give  it  up." 

"Haven't  you  got  a  will?" 

"Yes." 

"Can't  you  use  it?" 

"Yes.  But  I'm  afraid  of  him.  I  believe  I've  always  been 
afraid  of  him.  No  one  else  has  ever  been  able  to  make  me 
feel  as  I  do  about  him.  Once  I  read  an  article  in  a  paper. 
It  was  about  a  horrible  play — a  woman  who  was  drawn  to 
a  man  irresistibly  in  spite  of  herself,  to  a  hateful  man,  a  mur- 
derer. And  she  went;  she  had  to  go.  I  remember  I  thought 
of  him  then.  It  was  a  fascination  of  fear,  Adela.  There  are 
such  things." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  after  what  I  have  told  you " 

"I  want  someone  to  get  him  away,  to  drive  him  away  from 


CHAPTER  IX  DECEMBER  L0\:E  481 

me  so  that  I  shall  never  see  him,  so  that  he  will  never  come 
near  me  again !  I  might  go  to  Paris.  But  it  would  be  no  use. 
He  would  follow  me  there.  I  might  go  to  America.  But  that 
would  be  just  the  same.    He  says  so  in  this  letter." 

She  held  up  the  letter  in  her  hand. 

"Does  he  threaten  you?" 

"No — not  exactly!  No,  he  doesn't!  It's  worse  than  that. 
If  he  did  I  think  I  might  find  the  courage.  He's  subtle,  Adela. 
He's  horribly  subtle !  Besides,  he  doesn't  know — he  can't  know 
that  you  have  told  me  what  he  is." 

"He  might  guess  it.  He  probably  has  guessed  it.  He  rec- 
ognized me  in  the  restaurant." 

"Yes.  He  didn't  want  you  to  come  to  our  table.  But  he 
never  spoke  of  you  afterwards.  He  didn't  say  a  word,  or 
show  the  slightest  sign.  But  in  this  letter  I  feel  that  he  sus- 
pects— that  he  is  afraid  something  may  happen  through  you, 
and  that " 

"Perhaps  he  knows  you  came  to  see  me  last  night." 

"How  could  he?" 

"It  wouldn't  be  difficult  for  a  man  of  that  type." 

"I  walked  home  alone,  and  nobody " 

"That  doesn't  prove  anything.     He  is  subtle,  as  you  say." 

"I  am  sure  from  this  letter  that  he  guesses  something  has 
happened,  that  I  may  have  been  set  against  him,  and  that  he 
doesn't  mean  to  give  me  up,  whatever  happens.  I  feel  that 
in  his  letter.  And  I  want  someone  to  drive  him  away  from 
me.  Oh,  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  him !  I  wish  I  had  never  seen 
him!" 

Again  Lady  Sellingworth  heard  the  cry  of  youth,  and  this 
time  it  was  piteous,  almost  despairing.  She  did  not  answer 
it  in  words.  Indeed,  instead  of  showing  any  pity,  any  strong 
instinct  of  protection,  she  turned  away  from  Beryl. 

The  girl  wondered  why  she  did  this,  and  for  a  moment 
thought  that  perhaps  she  was  angry.  The  situation  was  diffi- 
cult, horribly  difficult.  Beryl  had  delicacy  enough  to  under- 
stand that.  Perhaps  she  ought  not  to  have  come  to  Adela 
again.  Perhaps  she  was  asking  too  much,  more  than  any  woman 
could  bring  herself  to  do,  or  to  try  to  do.  But  she  had  no  one 
else  to  go  to,  and  she  was  really  afraid,  miserably  afraid. 

Lady  Sellingworth  stood  quite  still  by  the  fire  with  her  back 


482  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

to  Beryl,  and  as  the  silence  continued  at  last  Beryl  made  up 
her  mind  that  there  was  nothing  to  be  hoped  for  from  her 
and  got  up  slowly. 

"Adela,"  she  said,  trying  to  summon  some  pride,  some  cour- 
age, "I  understand.  You  can't  do  anything  more.  I  oughtn't 
to  have  come.  It  was  monstrous,  I  suppose.  But — it's  like  that 
in  life.  So  few  people  will  help.  And  those  that  do — well,  they 
get  asked  for  more.  I'll — I'll  manage  somehow.  It's  all  my 
own  fault.    I  must  try  to " 

Then  Lady  Sellingworth  turned  round.  Her  white  face  was 
very  grave,  almost  stern,  like  the  face  of  one  who  was  thinking 
with  concentration. 

"I'm  ready  to  try  to  do  what  I  can.  Beryl,"  she  said.  "But 
there's  only  one  way  I  can  think  of.  And  to  take  it  I  shall 
have  to  tell  the  whole  truth." 

"About  me?" 

"About  you  and  myself." 

"Oh— but  you  couldn't  do  that !" 

"I  believe  that  I  ought  to." 

"But— but— to  whom  ?" 

"There's  only  one  person  I  could  possibly  speak  to,  and  he's 
the  finest  man  I  have  ever  met.  He  might  do  something.  I'm 
thinking  of  Seymour  Portman." 

"Adela!    But  you  couldn't  tell  him!" 

"Why  not?" 

"Adela — he  loves  you.    Everyone  knows  that." 

"And  that's  just  why  I  could  tell  him — him  only." 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  looked  down.  Suddenly  she  felt  that  she  had 
tears  in  her  eyes. 

"You  liave  kept  your  cab,  haven't  you?"  said  Lady  Selling- 
worth. 

"Yes." 

"Go  home  now.  I  will  telephone  to  Seymour.  I'll  let  you 
know  later — to-morrow  morning  perhaps — what  he  thinks  had 
better  be  done.    Now,  good  night,  Beryl !" 

She  held  out  her  hand.  Beryl  took  it,  but  did  not  press  it. 
Somehow  she  felt  awed,  and  at  a  distance  from  this  pale  quiet 
woman. 

Lady  Sellingworth  touched  the  bell,  and  Beryl  Van  Tuyn 
left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  X 

AS  soon  as  Beryl  had  gone  Lady  Sellingworth  went  down- 
stairs to  her  writing-room.  She  turned  on  the  electric 
light  as  she  went  into  the  room,  and  glanced  at  the  clock  on 
the  mantelpiece.  The  hands  pointed  to  half-past  nine.  She 
wondered  where  Seymour  was  dining.  He  might  chance  to 
be  at  home.  It  was  much  more  likely  that  he  was  dining  out, 
at  one  of  his  clubs  or  elsewhere.  If  he  were  at  home  and  alone 
he  would  come  to  her  at  once;  if  not  she  would  perhaps  have 
to  wait  till  half-past  ten  or  eleven.  She  hoped  to  find  him  at 
St.  James's  Palace.  As  this  thing  had  to  be  done — and  now 
she  had  burnt  her  boats,  for  she  had  promised  Beryl — she 
wished  to  do  it  quickly. 

She  inquired  through  the  telephone  if  Seymour  was  at  home. 
His  servant  replied  that  he  was  out.  She  asked  where.  The 
servant  did  not  know.  His  master  had  dressed  and  gone  out  at 
a  quarter  to  eight  without  saying  where  he  was  dining.  Lady 
Sellingworth  frowned  as  she  received  this  information.  She 
hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  she  said : 

"As  soon  as  Sir  Seymour  comes  in,  however  late  it  may 
be,  I  want  to  see  him  on  an  urgent  matter.  If  you  go  to  bed 
before  he  comes  back,  will  you  please  leave  a  written  mes- 
sage in  the  hall  asking  him  to  visit  Lady  Sellingworth  at  once 
in  Berkeley  Square.    It  is  very  important." 

"Yes,  my  lady,"  said  the  voice. 

"You  won't  forget?    I  shall  be  sitting  up  for  Sir  Seymour." 

"No,  my  lady.    I  will  stay  up  and  inform  Sir  Seymour." 

"Thank  you." 

She  put  the  receiver  back  in  its  place  and  again  looked  at 
the  clock.  She  had  not  much  hope  of  seeing  Seymour  before 
eleven  at  the  earliest.  He  might  be  at  a  big  dinner.  He  might 
be  at  the  theatre.  Probably  he  would  go  to  his  club  afterwards. 
She  might  not  see  him  till  midnight,  even  later  perhaps.  Well, 
it  could  not  be  helped.     She  must  just  be  patient,  must  wait 

483 


484  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

calmly.  But  she  did  not  want  to  wait.  She  was  beginning 
to  feel  nervous,  and  she  knew  that  the  nervousness  would  in- 
crease in  suspense.    How  unlucky  that  Seymour  was  out! 

She  rang  the  bell.    Murgatroyd  came. 

"I  am  expecting  Sir  Seymour  to-night,  Murgatroyd,"  she 
said,  "about  some  important  business.  But  I  can't  find  out 
where  he  is,  so  he  won't  know  till  he  goes  home.  That  may 
be  late.  But  he  will  come  on  here  directly  he  gets  my  mes- 
sage. I'm  sorry  to  keep  you  up,  but  I  should  like  you  to 
let  him  in." 

"Certainly,  my  lady,"  said  Murgatroyd. 

"I  shall  be  waiting  for  him  in  the  drawing-room.  Bring 
me  up  some  camomile  tea,  will  you?  And  put  out  a  cigar  and 
whisky  and  Perrier  for  Sir  Seymour." 

"Yes,  my  lady." 

"That's  all." 

Alurgatroyd  stood  back  to  let  her  pass  out  of  the  room.  She 
thought  at  that  moment  there  was  something  sympathetic  in 
his  face. 

"I  believe  he's  rather  devoted  to  me,  and  to  Seymour  too," 
she  said  to  herself  as  she  went  upstairs.  "I  don't  think  he'll 
say  anything  to  the  others.     Not  that  it  matters  if  he  does !" 

Nevertheless  she  felt  oddly  shy  about  Seymour  coming  to 
her  very  late  at  night,  and  wondered  what  Murgatroyd  thought 
of  that  long  friendship.  No  doubt  he  knew,  no  doubt  all  the 
servants  knew,  how  devoted  to  her  Seymour  was. 

She  went  into  the  drawing-room  and  sat  down  by  the  fire, 
and  very  soon  Murgatroyd  brought  in  the  camomile  tea.  Then 
he  placed  on  a  side  table  a  box  of  cigars,  whisky  and  Perrier 
water,  and  went  out. 

The  clock  chimed  the  quarter  before  ten. 

Camomile  tea  is  generally  supposed  to  be  good  for  the 
nerves.  That  was  why  Lady  Sellingworth  had  ordered  it ;  that 
was  why  she  drank  it  now.  For  now  she  was  beginning  to 
feel  horribly  nervous,  and  the  feeling  seemed  to  increase  in 
her  with  every  passing  moment.  It  was  dreadful  waiting 
for  Seymour  like  this.  She  felt  all  her  courage  and  deter- 
mination oozing  away.  When  Beryl  had  been  there,  and  that 
strange  and  abrupt  decision  had  been  come  to.  Lady  Selling- 
worth  had  felt  almost  glad.    Seymour  would  know  what  Beryl 


CHAPTER  X  DECEMBER  LOVE  485 

knew,  the  worst,  and  perhaps  the  best,  of  his  old  friend.  And 
there  was  no  one  else  she  could  go  to.  Seymour  was  an  old 
soldier,  a  thorough  man  of  the  world,  absolutely  discreet,  with 
a  silent  tongue  and  proved  courage  and  coolness.  No  one  surely 
existed  more  fitted  to  deal  drastically  with  a  scoundrel  than 
he.  Lady  Sellingworth  had  no  idea  what  he  would  do.  But 
he  would  surely  find  a  way  to  get  rid  of  Arabian,  to  "drive" 
him,  as  Beryl  had  put  it,  out  of  the  girl's  life  for  ever.  Yes, 
he  would  find  a  way.  Lady  Sellingworth  felt  positive  of  that, 
and,  feeling  thus  positive,  she  realized  how  absolutely  she 
trusted  Seymour,  trusted  his  heart,  his  brain,  his  whole 
character. 

Nevertheless  she  looked  again  and  again  at  the  clock,  and 
began  to  feel  almost  sick  with  anxiety. 

The  thought  of  confession  had  scarcely  frightened  her  when 
Beryl  was  with  her.  Indeed,  it  had  brought  her  a  sense  of 
relief.  But  now  she  began  to  feel  almost  panic-stricken  at  the 
knowledge  of  what  was  before  her.  And  she  began  to  wonder 
exactly  how  much  Seymour  understood  of  her  character,  exactly 
how  much  he  knew  of  her  past.  He  must  certainly  know  a 
great  deal,  and  perhaps  suspect  more  than  he  knew.  She  had 
once  been  almost  explicit  with  him,  on  that  terrible  day  when 
she  had  tried  to  make  up  her  mind  to  marry  him,  and  had 
failed.  And  yet  he  might  be  surprised,  he  might  even  be 
horrified  when  she  told  him.  It  was  such  an  ugly  story,  such 
a  hideous  story.  And  Seymour  was  full  of  natural  rectitude. 
Whatever  he  had  done  in  his  life,  he  must  always  have  been 
incapable  of  stooping  down  to  the  gutter,  as  she  had  stooped. 
She  grew  hot  and  then  cold  at  the  thought  of  telling  him.  Per- 
haps he  would  not  be  able  to  bear  it.  Perhaps  even  his  love 
could  not  stand  so  much  as  that.  If,  after  she  had  told  him, 
he  looked  at  her  with  different  eyes,  if  he  changed  towards  her ! 
He  would  not  want  to  change,  but  if  he  could  not  help  it ! 

How  awful  that  would  be!  Something  deep  down  within 
her  seemed  to  founder  at  the  mere  thought  of  it.  To  lose 
Seymour!  That  would  indeed  be  the  end  of  everything  that 
made  life  worth  living  for  her.  She  shuddered  on  her  sofa. 
Then  she  got  up  and  stood  before  the  blazing  fire.  But  still 
she  felt  cold.  Surely  she  had  acted  imprudently  when  Beryl 
was  there.     She  had  been  carried  away,  had  yielded  to  a  sud- 


486  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

den  impulse.  And  yet  no !  For  she  had  stood  with  her  back 
to  Beryl  for  several  minutes  before  she  had  said  she  was  going 
to  tell  Seymour.  And  through  those  minutes  she  had  been 
thinking  hard.  Yes ;  but  she  had  not  thought  as  she  was  think- 
ing now. 

She  began  to  feel  desperate.  It  was  nearly  eleven  o'clock. 
The  time  had  flown.  Why  had  she  asked  Seymour  to  come 
to-night?  She  might  just  as  well  have  waited  till  to-morrow, 
have  "slept  on  it."  The  night  brings  counsel.  Yet  how  could 
she  break  her  promise  to  Beryl  ?  It  would  be  no  use  debating, 
for  she  had  promised. 

The  clock  struck  eleven. 

Seymour  might  come  now  in  a  moment.  On  the  other  hand, 
he  might  not  reach  home  till  midnight,  or  even  later.  It  would 
really  be  a  shame  to  bring  him  out  again  at  such  an  hour. 
She  had  been  thoughtless  when  she  was  at  the  telephone.  And 
she  was  keeping  his  man  up;  Murgatroyd  too.  That  was 
scarcely  fair.  It  would  not  matter  if  Seymour  came  now, 
but  if  he  did  not  get  home  till  much  later,  as  was  possible, 
even  probable !  She  had  surely  been  rather  selfish  in  her  desire 
to  do  something  quickly  for  Beryl.  There  was  no  such  ter- 
rible hurry  about  the  matter. 

An  overwhelming  desire  to  postpone  things  took  hold  of  her. 
She  wanted  to  have  time  to  think  over  how  she  would  put  it 
to  Seymour.  Would  not  it  perhaps  be  possible  to  obtain  his 
help  for  Beryl  without  telling  him  the  whole  truth  about 
Arabian?  She  might  just  say  that  she  knew  the  man  was  a 
blackguard  without  saying  why  she  knew.  There  was  per- 
haps no  need  to  be  absolutely  explicit.  Seymour  would  take 
it  from  her  without  asking  awkward  questions.  He  was  the 
least  curious  of  men.  He  would  probably  much  rather  not 
know  the  truth.  It  would  be  as  horrible  for  him  to  hear  it  as 
for  her  to  tell  it.  But  she  must  have  time  to  think  carefully 
over  how  she  would  put  it  to  him.  Yes,  she  must  have  time. 
Better  to  see  him  to-morrow  morning, 

A  quarter-past  eleven ! 

It  would  really  be  monstrous  to  drag  Seymour  out  to  have 
a  long  confabulation  about  a  girl  whom  he  scarcely  knew,  and 
could  have  no  interest  in,  at  this  time  of  night. 

And  she  turned  from  the  fire  and  went  decisively  towards 


CHAPTER  X  DECEMBER  LOVE  487 

the  door.  She  would  go  down  at  once  and  telephone  to  Sey- 
mour's apartment  in  St.  James's  Palace  cancelling  her  request 
to  his  manservant. 

She  found  Murgatroyd  waiting  in  the  hall.  He  looked 
faintly  surprised  at  seeing  her. 

"Oh,  Murgatroyd !"  she  said.  "It's  getting  so  late  that  I've 
decided  to  put  off  Sir  Seymour  till  to-morrow.  I'm  just  going 
to  telephone  now.    So  you  needn't  sit  up  any  longer." 

"Very  well,  my  lady." 

"Good  night." 

"Gk)od  night,  my  lady." 

"I'll  turn  out  the  lights  when  I  go  up." 

"Shan't  I " 

"No — you  needn't.    Good  night." 

She  went  into  the  writing-room  and  shut  the  door  behind 
her.  The  thought  of  the  intense  relief  she  would  feel  directly 
she  had  spoken  through  the  telephone  and  put  off  Seymour, 
directly  it  was  settled  that  he  was  not  to  come  and  see  her  that 
night,  sent  her  straight  to  the  telephone.  She  was  eager  to 
communicate  with  his  servant.  But  she  wished  now  intensely 
that  she  had  not  waited  so  long.  She  might  possibly  be  too 
late.  Seymour  might  have  returned  home,  had  her  message, 
and  started  for  Berkeley  Square.  She  took  the  receiver  in 
her  hand  and  was  just  going  to  speak  when  she  heard  a  cab 
outside  in  the  Square.  She  listened.  It  came  up  and  stopped 
at  her  door. 

That  was  Seymour!  She  was  certain  of  it.  She  put  the 
receiver  back  in  its  place  and  stood  quite  still,  listening.  The 
bell  was  rung.  Murgatroyd  could  not  have  gone  to  bed.  He 
would  answer  the  bell  no  doubt.  If  he  did  not  she  would  have 
to  answer  it.  After  a  pause  she  heard  the  bell  again,  then, 
almost  immediately,  the  front  door  being  opened,  and  a  faint 
murmur  of  voices.  An  instant  later  she  heard  the  cab  drive 
away.  Perhaps — ^had  Seymour  called  and  gone  away?  Could 
Murgatroyd  have 

The  door  behind  her  was  opened.     She  turned  sharply. 

"Sir  Seymour  Portman  has  called  to  see  you,  my  lady." 
Looking  beyond  Murgatroyd  she  saw  Seymour  standing  in 
the  hall,  in  evening  dress  and  a  thick  black  overcoat. 

Seymour  had  sent  away  his  cab ! 


488  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

She  went  into  the  hall  smiling  faintly. 

"So  you  have  come !  I  was  just  going  to  speak  to  your 
man  through  the  telephone,  to  tell  him  not  to  bother  you,  that 
it  didn't  matter,  and  that  to-morrow  would  do  as  well.  It's 
so  very  late." 

He  began  to  take  off  his  overcoat,  helped  by  Murgatroyd. 

"Not  a  bit  too  late!"  he  said.  "I  shall  enjoy  a  little  talk 
with  you  by  the  fire.  Thanks,  Murgatroyd!  I  was  dining 
out  with  the  Montgomeries  in  Eaton  Square." 

"Come  upstairs." 

She  led  the  way,  and  as  she  mounted  slowly  with  him  close 
behind  her  she  felt  weak  and  now  horribly  afraid.  She  went 
into  the  drawing-room.  He  followed  and  shut  the  door,  then 
came  slowly,  with  his  firm  tread,  towards  her  and  the  fire, 

"Ah !"  he  said.    "You  thought  of  me !" 

He  had  seen  the  cigar-box,  the  whisky  and  Perrier.  A  very 
gentle,  intensely  kind,  almost  beaming  look  came  into  his  lined 
face. 

"Or — was  it  Murgatroyd  ?" 

"No." 

"I  wonder  whether  you  know  what  it  means  to  an  old  fellow 
like  myself  to  be  thought  of  now  and  then  in  these  little  ways  1" 

"Oh — Seymour!"  she  said. 

Tears  stood  in  her  eyes.  His  few  simple  words  had  suddenly 
brought  home  to  her  in  a  strange,  intense  way  the  long  loneli- 
ness to  which  she  had  condemned  him.  And  now  he  was  an 
old  fellow!  And  he  was  grateful,  beamingly  grateful,  for  a 
little  commonplace  thought  about  his  comfort  such  as  any 
hostess  might  surely  have  had ! 

"Don't!"  she  added.  "You  hurt  me  when  you  say  such  a 
thing." 

"Do  I  ?    And  if  I  take  a  cigar?" 

"Here !    Let  me  clip  it  for  you  I" 

As  she  clipped  it  he  said : 

"There  is  nothing  serious  the  matter,  is  there,  Adela  ?  When 
I  had  your  message  I  felt  a  little  anxious." 

She  lit  a  match  for  him.  She  felt  very  tender  over  him,  but 
she  felt  also  very  much  afraid  of  him. 

"Your  hand  is  trembling,  my  dear !" 

He  took  hold  of  her  wrist,  and  held  it  while  she  lit  his 


CHAPTER  X  DECEMBER  LOVE  489 

cigar.  And  his  dry,  firm  fingers  seemed  to  send  her  some 
strength. 

"If  only  I  had  as  little  to  be  ashamed  of  as  he  has!"  she 
thought,  with  a  sort  of  writhing  despair. 

And  she  longed,  as  never  before,  for  an  easy  conscience. 

"I've  had  rather  a  trying  time  just  lately,"  she  said.  "Come 
and  sit  down.    Will  you  drink  something?" 

"Not  yet,  thank  you." 

He  sat  down  in  an  arm-chair  and  crossed  his  legs,  putting 
the  right  leg  over  the  left,  as  he  always  did.  She  was  on  her 
sofa,  leaning  on  her  left  arm,  and  looking  at  him.  She  was 
trying  to  read  him,  to  read  his  whole  character,  to  force  her 
way  to  his  secret,  that  she  might  be  sure  how  much  she  might 
dare.  Could  he  ever  turn  against  her?  Was  that  possible? 
His  kind,  dark  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her.  Could  they  ever 
look  unkindly  at  her?  She  could  scarcely  believe  that  they 
could.  But  she  knew  that  in  human  nature  few  things  are 
impossible.  Such  terrible  changes  can  take  place  in  a  moment. 
And  the  mystery  is  never  really  solved. 

"Well,  my  dear,  would  you  like  to  tell  me  what  is  troubHng 
you  ?    Perhaps  I  can  do  something." 

"I  want  you  to  do  something  for  me.  Or  rather — it  would 
really  be  for  somebody  else.    You  remember  Beryl  Van  Tuyn  ?" 

"The  daflFodil  girl— yes." 

"She  has  been  here  to-night.  She  is  in  a  great  difficulty. 
By  the  way,  of  course  she  knows  about  my  consulting  you.  I 
told  her  I  would  do  it." 

"I  did  not  suppose  you  would  give  away  a  confidence." 

"No!  Seymour,  has  it  ever  struck  you  that  there  is  some- 
thing in  you  and  in  me  which  is  akin  in  spite  of  the  tremen- 
dous differences  in  our  natures?" 

"Oh  yes." 

"I'm  glad.    I  like  to  feel  that  and— and  I  want  you  to  feel  it." 

"I  do.    I  feel  it  strongly." 

"Whatever  happens  it  would  always  be  there." 

"Yes,  of  course." 

"It  helps  you  to  understand  me,  I  expect." 

"Surely  it  must." 

"I  wonder  if  you  could  ever — " 

"What  is  it,  Adela?" 


490  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

"I  wonder  if  you  could  ever  turn  against  me." 

"I  don't  think  that  is  very  likely,"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him.     He  was  smiling. 

"But — could  nothing  cause  you  to  change  towards  me?" 

"Some  things  might  cause  me  to  change  towards  anyone." 

"Ah!" 

"But  as  they  are  not  in  your  nature  we  need  not  consider 
them." 

"But  how  do  you  know?" 

"I  do  know." 

"But— what?" 

"I  know  what  you  might  do,  or  may  have  done.  I  know 
just  as  well  what  you  have  never  done  and  could  never  do." 

"But  I  have  done  some  horrible  things,  Seymour." 

"They  are  past.    Let  us  forget  them." 

"But — horrible  things  come  back  in  one's  life !  They  are  like 
revenants.    After  years — they  rise  up." 

"What  is  the  matter,  Adela  ?    Do  tell  me." 

"I  want  to,  but  I'm  afraid." 

And  directly  she  had  told  him  that  she  felt  less  afraid. 

"What  are  you  afraid  of  ?" 

"I'm  afraid  of  you." 

"Of  me?" 

"Of  what  you  may  think  of  me,  feel  towards  me,  if  I  tell 
you." 

"Then — ^you  do  care  what  I  feel  ?" 

"I  care  very  much.    I  care  terribly." 

Sir  Seymour  uncrossed  his  legs  and  made  a  slight  movement 
as  if  he  were  going  to  get  up.  Then  he  sat  still  and  took  a 
pull  at  his  cigar,  and  then  he  said : 

"You  need  not  be  afraid  of  me,  Adela.  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  about  you.  Do  you  know  what  that  means?  It  means 
that  you  cannot  surprise  me.  And  I  think  it  is  surprise  which 
oftenest  brings  about  changes  in  feeling.  What  is  it?  You 
say  it  is  something  to  do  with  Miss  Van  Tuyn?" 

"Yes,  but  my  life  is  in  it,  too;  a  horrible  bit  of  my  life." 

"What  can  I  do  unless  you  tell  me?" 

"That's  true." 

She  sat  for  a  moment  in  silence  gazing  at  him,  at  the  lean 
figure,  the  weather-beaten  face,  the  curly  white  hair,  and  at 


CHAPTER  X  DECEMBER  LOVE  491 

the  dark  eyes  which  were  looking  steadily  at  her,  but  not 
penetratingly,  not  cruelly.  And  then  she  sat  straight  up,  took 
her  arm  from  the  sofa,  folded  her  hands  on  her  lap  with  an 
effort  to  make  them  look  calm,  and  began  to  tell  him.  She 
spoke  very  simply,  very  steadily.  She  dressed  nothing  up.  She 
strove  to  diminish  nothing.  Her  only  aim  was  to  be  quite 
unemotional  and  perfectly  truthful.  She  began  with  Beryl 
Van  Tuyn's  acquaintance  with  Arabian,  how  she  had  met  him 
in  Garstin's  studio,  and  went  on  till  she  came  to  the  night  when 
she  and  Craven  had  seen  them  together  at  the  Bella  Napoli. 

"I  recognized  the  man  Beryl  was  with,"  she  said.  "I  knew 
him  to  be  a  blackguard." 

She  described  her  abrupt  departure  from  the  restaurant, 
Craven's  following  her,  her  effort  to  persuade  him  to  go  back 
and  to  take  Beryl  home. 

"I  went  home  alone,"  she  said,  "and  considered  what  I  ought 
to  do.  Finally  I  wrote  Beryl  a  letter.  It  was  something 
like  this." 

She  gave  the  gist  of  the  letter.  Seymour  sat  smoking  and 
did  not  say  a  word.  Her  narrative  had  been  so  consecutive 
and  plain  that  he  had  had  no  need  to  ask  any  question.  And 
she  was  glad  of  his  silence.  Any  interruption,  she  felt,  would 
have  upset  her,  perhaps  even  have  confused  her. 

"Beryl  was  not  satisfied  with  that  letter,"  she  went  on.  "On 
the  night  when  she  had  it — last  night — she  came  to  me  to  ask 
for  an  explanation.  I  didn't  want  to  give  one.  I  did  my  best 
to  avoid  giving  one.  But  when  I  found  she  was  obstinate, 
and  would  not  drop  this  man  unless  I  gave  her  my  reasons 
for  warning  her  against  him,  when  I  found  she  had  even 
thought  of  marrying  him,  I  felt  that  it  was  my  duty  to  tell  her 
everything.    So  I  told  her — this." 

And  then  she  told  him  all  the  truth  about  the  affair  of  the 
jewels,  emphasizing  nothing,  but  omitting  nothing.  She  looked 
away  from  him,  turned  her  eyes  towards  the  fire,  and  tried  to 
feel  very  calm  and  very  detached.  It  was  all  ten  years  ago. 
But  did  that  make  any  difference?  For  was  she  essentially 
different  from  the  woman  who  had  been  Arabian's  victim? 

Still  Seymour  sat  as  before  and  went  on  smoking.  As  she 
was  gazing  at  the  fire  she  did  not  know  for  certain  whether 
he  was  still  looking  at  her  or  not. 


492  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

At  last  she  had  finished  the  personal  part  of  her  narrative, 
though  she  had  still  to  tell  him  how  Beryl  had  taken  it  and 
what  had  happened  that  day.  Before  going  on  to  that  she 
paused  for  a  moment.  And  immediately  she  heard  Seymour 
move.  He  got  up  and  went  slowly  to  the  table  where  the 
whisky  and  Perrier  water  had  been  placed  by  Murgatroyd. 
Then  she  looked  at  him.  He  stood  with  his  back  to  her.  She 
saw  him  bend  down  and  pour  out  a  glass  of  the  water.  With- 
out turning  he  lifted  the  glass  to  his  mouth  and  drank.  Then 
he  put  the  glass  down;  and  then  he  stood  for  a  moment  quite 
still,  always  keeping  his  back  towards  her.  She  wondered  what 
he  was  looking  at.  That  was  the  question  in  her  mind.  "What 
can  Seymour  be  looking  at?" 

At  last  he  turned  round.  She  thought  that  his  face  looked 
unusually  stern,  and  his  bushy  eyebrows  seemed — so  she  fan- 
cied— to  be  drawn  down  low  above  his  eyes. 

"Go  on — my  dear,"  he  said  in  a  rather  gruff  and  very  low 
voice. 

She  quivered.  She,  perhaps,  scarcely  knew  why.  At  the 
moment  she  really  believed  that  she  did  not  know  why.  Sud- 
denly emotion  began  to  gain  on  her.  But  she  struggled  reso- 
lutely against  it. 

"Aren't  you — don't  you  mean  to  sit  down  again?"  she  said. 

"No.    I  think  I'll  stand." 

And  he  came  slowly  to  stand  by  the  fire. 

"Well,"  she  began  again,  making  a  great  effort,  "I  thought 
that  was  all.  I  didn't  think  there  was  anything  more  for  me 
to  do.  But  Beryl  came  back  again  to-night  and  begged  me  to 
help  her.  She  is  terrified  of — she's  afraid  of  him,  that  maa. 
She's  afraid  of  what  he  may  do.  I  tried  to  reassure  her.  But 
it  was  no  good." 

And  again  she  narrated,  now  with  difficulty  forcing  herself 
to  seem  calm  and  unembarrassed,  exactly  what  had  happened 
that  day  between  Beryl  Van  Tuyn  and  herself,  till  she  came 
to  the  moment  when  she  had  turned  away  from  Beryl  and  had 
gone  to  stand  by  the  fire.  Then  once  more  she  paused  and 
seemed  seized  by  hesitation.  As  Sir  Seymour  said  nothing,  did 
not  help  her  out,  at  last  she  went  on : 

"Then  I  thought  of  you.  I  had  never  meant  to  tell  anyone 
but  Beryl,  but  as  /  could  do  nothing  to  help  her,  and  as  she  is, 


CHAPTER  X  DECEMBER  LOVE  498 

perhaps,  really  in  danger — she  is  only  a  girl,  and  she  spoke  of 
the  fascination  of  fear — I  felt  I  must  make  a  further  effort  to 
do  something.    And  I  thought  of  you." 

"Why  was  that?"  asked  Sir  Seymour,  turning  towards  her, 
but  not  impulsively. 

"Because  I  knew  if  anyone  could  stop  this  thing  you  could." 

"That  was  your  reason?" 

"That — ^and — and  I  knew  that  I  could  never  tell  all  this — 
about  myself,  I  mean — to  anyone  but  you.  For  ten  years  no 
one  has  known  it." 

"You  felt  you  could  tell  me !" 

The  way  in  which  he  said  those  words  was  so  inexpressive 
that  Lady  Sellingworth  did  not  know  what  was  the  feeling 
behind  them,  whether  it  was  astonishment,  indignation,  or 
something  quite  different. 

"I — I  didn't  want  to "  she  almost  faltered,  again  full  of 

fear,  almost  of  terror.  "I  was  afraid  to.  But  I  felt  I  could, 
and  I  told  Beryl  so." 

"I  wonder  what  made  you  feel  you  could,"  he  said,  still  in 
the  same  curiously  inexpressive  way. 

She  said  nothing.  She  leaned  back  on  the  sofa  and  her 
hands  began  to  move  restlessly,  nervously.  She  plucked  at  her 
dress,  put  a  hand  to  the  ruby  pinned  in  the  front  of  her 
bodice,  lifted  the  hand  to  her  face,  laid  it  on  the  back  of  the 
sofa. 

"What  was  it?"  he  said. 

"I  hardly  feel  I  can  tell  you,"  she  said. 

"Then  don't,  if  yoif  would  rather  not.  But  I  should  be  glad 
to  know." 

"Would  you  ?    I  told  Beryl  the  reason." 

She  felt  forced  to  say  that,  forced  to  speak  that  bit  of  truth. 

"Then,  if  so,  cannot  you  tell  me  ?" 

"I  said— I  said  I  could  tell  you  because  I  knew  you  were 
fond  of  me." 

"Ah— that  was  it!" 

He  was  silent.    At  last  he  said : 

"I  should  like  to  ask  you  a  question.    May  I?" 

"Yes — please  do." 

"Are  you  very  fond  of  Beryl  Van  Tuyn?" 

"Oh,  no!" 


494  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

"Aren't  you  at  all  fond  of  her?" 

"I'm  afraid  not.    No.    But  I  like  her  much  better  than  I  did." 

"Since  you  have  done  something  for  her?" 

"Perhaps  it  is  that." 

"It  is  that." 

He  came  towards  the  sofa  and  stood  by  it  looking  down 
at  her. 

"I  told  you  just  now,  Adela,  that  you  couldn't  surprise  me. 
What  you  have  done  in  connexion  with  Beryl  Van  Tuyn  has 
not  surprised  me.  I  always  knew  you  were  capable  of  such  a 
thing;  yes,  even  of  a  thing  as  fine  as  that.  Thank  God  you 
have  had  your  opportunity.  Of  course  you  took  it.  But  thank 
God  you  have  had  it." 

"I  had  to  take  it.    I  couldn't  do  anything  else." 

"Of  course  you  couldn't." 

She  got  up.  She  did  not  know  why.  She  just  felt  that  she 
had  to  get  up.    Seymour  put  his  hands  on  her  shoulders. 

"Have  you  ever  wondered  why  I  was  able  to  go  on  loving 
you  ?"  he  asked  her. 

"Yes,  very  often." 

"Well,  now  perhaps  you  won't  wonder  any  more." 

And  he  lifted  his  hands  from  her  shoulders.  But  he  stood 
there  for  a  moment  looking  at  her.  And  in  his  eyes  she  read 
her  reward. 


CHAPTER  XI 

EARLY  on  the  following  morning,  soon  after  ten  o'clock, 
Miss  Van  Tuyn  was  startled  by  a  knock  on  her  bedroom 
door.  Everything  at  all  unexpected  startled  her  just  now.  Her 
nerves,  as  even  old  Fanny  could  not  help  noticing,  had  gone 
"all  to  pieces."  She  lived  in  perpetual  fear.  Nearly  all  the 
previous  night  she  had  been  lying  awake  turning  over  and 
over  in  her  mind  the  horrible  possibilities  of  the  future.  It 
was  in  vain  that  she  tried  to  call  her  normal  common  sense 
to  the  rescue,  in  vain  that  she  tried  to  look  at  facts  calmly, 
to  sum  them  up  dispassionately,  and  to  draw  from  them  reason- 
able conclusions.  She  could  not  be  reasonable.  Her  brain 
said  to  her :  "You  have  no  reason  for  fear.  You  are  perfectly 
safe.  Your  folly  and  wilfulness,  your  carelessness  of  opinion, 
your  reckless  spirit  of  defiant  independence,  your  ugly  and 
abominable  desires" — her  brain  did  not  spare  her — "might  easily 
have  brought  you  to  irretrievable  ruin.  They  might  have  de- 
stroyed you.  But  Fate  has  intervened  to  protect  you.  You 
have  been  saved  from  the  consequences  of  your  own  impru- 
dence— to  call  it  by  no  other  name.  Give  thanks  to  the  God 
of  luck,  and  to  the  woman  who  sacrificed  her  pride  for  your 
sake,  and  live  diflFerently  in  the  future."  Her  brain,  in  fact, 
told  her  she  was  saved.  But  something  else  that  she  could 
not  classify,  something  still  and  remote  and  persistent,  told 
her  that  she  was  in  great  danger.  She  said  to  herself,  think- 
ing of  Arabian:  "What  can  he  do?  I  am  my  own  mistress. 
If  I  choose  to  cut  him  dead  he  must  accept  my  decision  to  have 
nothing  more  to  do  with  him  and  go  out  of  my  life.  He 
simply  can't  do  anything  else.  I  have  the  whole  thing  in  my 
hands.  He  hasn't  a  scrap  of  my  writing.  He  can't  blackmail 
me.  He  can't  compromise  me  more  than  I  have  already  com- 
promised myself  by  going  about  with  him  and  being  seen  in 
his  flat.  He  is  helpless,  and  I  have  absolutely  nothing  to  be 
afraid  of."  She  said  all  this  to  herself,  and  yet  she  was  full 
of  fear.  That  fear  had  driven  her  to  Lady  Sellingworth  on 
the  previous  evening,  and  it  had  grown  in  the  night.     The 

495 


496  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

thought  of  Arabian  tormented  her.  She  said  to  herself  that 
he  could  do  nothing  and,  even  while  she  said  it,  the  inexor- 
able something  within  her  whispered :  "What  might  not  that 
man  do  ?"  Her  imagination  put  no  limit  now  to  his  possibilities 
for  evil.  All  the  horrors  of  the  underworld  were,  for  her, 
congregated  together  in  him.  She  trembled  at  the  memorj'  of 
having  been  in  his  arms,  shut  up  alone  with  him  in  the  flat 
by  the  river.  She  attributed  to  him  nameless  powers.  Some- 
thing mysterious  in  him,  something  occult,  had  reduced  her 
apparently  to  the  level  of  an  imaginative  child,  who  peoples 
the  night  with  spectres  and  conceives  of  terrors  she  cannot 
describe. 

She  felt  that  Arabian  was  not  as  other  men,  that  he  really 
was  what  Garstin  had  called  him,  a  king  in  the  underworld, 
and  that  that  was  why  he  had  had  power  over  her.  She  felt 
that  he  had  within  him  something  which  ruled,  which  would 
have  its  way.  She  felt  that  he  was  more  persistent  than  other 
men,  more  crafty,  more  self-possessed,  more  capable,  more 
subtle.  She  felt  that  he  had  greatness  as  a  ruffian,  as  another 
man  might  have  greatness  as  a  saint.  And  she  felt  above 
all  that  he  was  an  expert  with  women. 

If  he  had  wanted  Adela  Sellingworth  as  well  as  her  jewels, 
how  would  it  have  been  then?  What  would  have  happened 
ten  years  ago?  He  had  not  wanted  Adela  Sellingworth.  But 
he  wanted  her.  She  was  positive  of  that.  That  he  had  known 
she  was  well  off  and  was  going  to  be  rich  she  did  not  doubt 
for  a  moment.  She  could  never  forget  as  long  as  she  lived 
the  fleeting  expression  which  had  changed  his  face  when  she 
had  told  him  of  the  death  of  her  father.  At  that  moment  he 
had  certainly  felt  that  a  fortune  was  probably  almost  within 
his  grasp.  Nevertheless  she  was  positive,  she  was  absolutely 
certain  as  a  girl  can  be  about  such  a  thing,  that  he  wanted  and 
had  long  wanted  her.  He  had  waited  because  mingled  with 
his  man's  desire  for  her  there  had  been  the  other  desire.  He 
might  have  rushed  at  an  intrigue.  Such  a  man  could  have 
no  real  delicacies.  He  was  too  wise  to  rush  at  a  marriage. 
And  he  must  have  had  marriage  in  his  mind  almost  ever  since 
he  had  met  her.  He  must  have  made  inquiries,  have  found 
out  all  about  her,  and  then  laid  his  plans.  Her  looks  had  prob- 
ably brought  him  for  the  first  time  to  Garstin's  studio.    But  it 


CHAPTER  XI  DECEMBER  LOVE  497 

was  not  only  his  admiration  for  her  appearance  which  had 
brought  him  there  again  and  again,  which  had  taught  him 
detached  self-control,  almost  distant  respect,  puzzling  reserve, 
secrecy  in  intimacy,  which  had  taught  him  to  wait — till  he 
knew. 

And  when  he  had  not  waited,  when  he  had  chosen  to  give  way 
because  the  right  moment  had  come,  when  he  had  made  her  go 
with  him  to  his  flat,  when  he  had  shown  her  what  he  wanted ! 
His  warmth  then  had  not  been  a  pretending.  And  yet,  just 
before  he  had  taken  her  in  his  arms,  he  had  deliberately  man- 
aged so  that  Mrs.  Birchington  should  see  her  go  into  his 
flat.  What  a  horrible  mingling  of  elements  there  was  in  this 
man!  Even  his  natural  passions  were  intertwined  with  his 
hideous  professional  instincts.  The  stretched-out  hand  of  the 
lover  was  also  the  stretched-out  hand  of  the  thief. 

When  she  heard  the  knock  on  her  bedroom  door  she  trembled. 

"Yes  ?"  she  said,  after  a  moment  of  hesitation. 

She  was  up  and  was  sitting  in  an  arm-chair  near  the  win- 
dow having  breakfast,  and  looking  at  her  post. 

"Yes?" 

Another  knock. 

"Come  in!"  she  cried. 

The  door  was  gingerly  opened  and  a  page-boy  showed  him- 
self.   Miss  Van  Tuyn  looked  at  him  with  dread. 

"What  is  it?     Something  for  me?" 

"There's  a  gentleman  wants  to  see  you,  ma'am." 

"I  can't  see  anyone.  I  told  them  so  at  the  bureau.  Where 
is  he?" 

"Down  below,  ma'am." 

"Send  him  away.     Say  I'm  still  asleep.     Say " 

She  noticed  for  the  first  time  that  the  boy  had  a  card.  He 
had  been  hiding  it  pressed  to  a  salver  against  his  trouser-leg. 
Now  he  lifted  the  salver.  But  Miss  Van  Tuyn  did  not  take 
the  card.    She  was  certain  the  man  below  was  Arabian. 

"I  can't  see  anyone.    It's  much  too  early." 

"The  gentleman  said  it  was  very  important,  ma'am,  and  I 
was  to  say  so,"  said  the  page,  with  a  certain  chubby  dignity 
that  was  almost  official. 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  was  now  terrified.  It  was  Arabian,  and  he 
would  not  go  till  he  had  seen  her.     She  was  certain  of  that. 


498  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

He  would  wait  downstairs.  She  would  be  a  prisoner  in  her 
rooms.  All  her  fear  of  him  seemed  to  rush  upon  her  inten- 
sified, a  fear  such  as  she  had  never  felt  before.  She  got  up 
tingling  all  over,  and  with  a  feeling  as  if  all  the  blood  had 
suddenly  sunk  away  from  her  temples, 

"You  must  tell  him " 

The  page-boy  was  now  holding  out  the  salver  with  the  card 
on  it,  almost  as  if  in  self-protection !  Her  eyes  fell  on  it  against 
her  will,  and  she  saw  there  were  four  printed  words  on  it. 
On  Arabian's  card  there  were  only  two :  Nicolas  Arabian.  In- 
stantly she  stretched  out  her  hand  and  took  the  card  up — 

"General  Sir  Seymour  Portman." 

Her  relief  was  so  great  that  she  could  not  conceal  it. 

"Oh !"  she  exclaimed. 

"Ma'am  ?"  said  the  boy,  looking  more  official. 

"Please  run  down " 

"Run  ma'am?" 

"Yes — down  at  once  and  bring  the  gentleman  up  to  my 
sitting-room.    Be  as  quick  as  you  can." 

The  page  retired  with  a  stiff  back  and  rather  slow-moving 
legs. 

So  Adela  had  wasted  no  time!  She  had  been  as  good  as 
her  word.    What  a  splendid  woman  she  was ! 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  did  something  to  her  gown,  to  her  hair.  Not 
that  she  wanted  to  make  an  impression  on  Sir  Seymour.  Cir- 
cumstances were  combining  at  present  to  drive  her  away  from 
her  vanity.  Really  she  acted  mechanically.  Then  she  pre- 
pared to  go  to  the  sitting-room.  And  then,  at  the  bedroom 
door  she  hesitated,  suddenly  realizing  what  lay  before  her. 
Finally  she  opened  the  door  and  listened.  She  heard  almost 
immediately  another  door  opened  and  a  boy's  chirpy  voice  say : 

"This  way,  sir,  please!" 

Then  she  went  out  and  came  upon  Sir  Seymour  Portman  in 
the  lobby. 

"How  very  kind  of  you  to  come !"  she  said,  with  an  attempt 
at  eager  cordiality  but  feeling  now  strangely  shy  and  guilty. 
"And  so  early !" 

"Gk>od  morning!    May  I  put  my  hat  here?" 


CHAPTER  XI  DECEMBER  LOVE  499 

"Yes,  do.    And  leave  your  coat.    Is  it  cold  out?" 

"Rather  cold." 

"This  is  my  little  room." 

She  went  before  him  into  the  sitting-room  which  had  a  dread- 
fully early  morning  air,  with  its  only  just  beginning  fire,  and 
its  wintry  dimness  of  the  poor  and  struggling  day. 

"If  only  we  could  have  met  in  the  evening!"  she  thought. 

It  was  awful  to  discuss  such  a  situation  as  hers  when  the 
milkman  had  scarcely  finished  his  rounds,  and  when  her  vitality 
had  not  been  warmed  up. 

"Do  sit  down,  Sir  Seymour !"  she  said. 

"Thank  you !" 

And  he  sat  down  in  a  businesslike  sort  of  way,  and  at  once 
began: 

"Rather  late  last  night  I  saw  Lady  Sellingworth." 

"Oh?    Yes?" 

"She  sent  for  me.    You  know  why,  I  understand?" 

"Yes.    I  had  been  with  her." 

"She  told  me  the  whole  matter." 

"Oh!  Did  she?  I — I've  been  awfully  foolish.  I  deserve  to 
— I  deserve  everything.  I  know  that.  Adela  has  been  so  good 
to  me.  I  can  never  say  how  good.  She  might  so  easily  have — 
I  mean  considering  the  way  I  have " 

She  stopped.  Adela  could  not  have  told  Sir  Seymour  about 
the  unkindness  of  the  girl  she  had  sent  him  to  help.  Miss 
Van  Tuyn  remembered  that  just  in  time. 

"Lady  Sellingworth  did  what  you  wished,"  said  Sir  Seymour, 
still  in  a  quiet  and  businesslike  way,  "and  consulted  me.  She 
told  me  what  you  wanted;  that  this  man,  Arabian,  should  be 
made  to  understand  that  he  must  finally  give  up  any  plans 
he  had  formed  with  regard  to  you." 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  felt  the  red  beginning  to  creep  in  her  cheeks. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  looking  down. 

"Perhaps  this  can  be  done,"  continued  Sir  Seymour,  in  a 
practical  way,  rather  like  a  competent  man  at  a  board  meeting. 
"We  must  see." 

He  did  not  suggest  that  she  could  do  it  herself.  She  was 
thankful  to  him  for  that. 

"Have  you  a  photograph  of  this  man?"  he  continued. 

"Oh— no!" 


600  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

"That  is  a  pity." 

"But  why  do  you  want " 


"I  should  hke  to  have  his  photograph  to  show  at  Scotland 
Yard." 

"Oh !"  she  exclaimed. 

Her  face  was  scarlet  now.  Her  forehead  was  burning.  An 
acute  and  horrible  sense  of  shame  possessed  her,  seemed  to  be 
wrapped  round  her  like  a  stinging  garment. 

"I've — I've  never  had  a  photograph  of  him,"  she  said. 

After  a  short  pause  Sir  Seymour  said: 

"You've  got  his  address." 

The  words  seemed  a  statement  as  he  said  them. 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"Will  you  kindly  write  it  down  for  me?" 

"Yes." 

She  got  up,  still  wrapped  up  in  shame,  and  went  to  the 
writing-table.  She  took  up  a  pen  to  write  Arabian's  address. 
But  she  could  not  remember  the  number  of  his  flat.  Her  mem- 
ory refused  to  give  it  to  her. 

"I  can't  remember  the  number,"  she  said,  standing  by  the 
writing-table. 

"If  you  can  give  me  the  address  of  the  flats  I  can  easily 
find  out  the  number." 

"It  is  Rose  Tree  Gardens" — she  began  writing  it  down — 
"Rose  Tree  Gardens,  Chelsea.    It  is  close  to  the  river." 

She  came  away  from  the  writing-table,  and  gave  him  the 
paper  with  the  address  on  it. 

"Thank  you !" 

He  took  the  paper,  folded  it  up,  drew  out  a  leather  case  from 
an  inner  pocket  of  his  braided  black  jacket,  and  consigned  the 
paper  to  it.    Miss  Van  Tuyn  sat  down  again. 

"I  understand  you  met  this  man  at  the  studio  of  Mr,  Garstin, 
the  painter?"  said  Sir  Seymour. 

"Yes.  But  he  wasn't  a  friend  of  Mr.  Garstin's.  Mr. 
Garstin  saw  him  at  the  Cafe  Royal  and  wished  to  paint  him,  so 
he  asked  him  to  come  to  the  studio." 

"And  he  has  painted  a  portrait  of  him  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Is  it  a  good  one?" 

"Yes,  wonderful !"  she  said,  with  a  shudder. 


CHAPTER  XI  DECEMBER  LOVE  601 

"I  mean  really  is  it  a  good  likeness  ?" 

"Oh !    Yes,  it  is  very  like  in  a  way,  horribly  like." 

"In  a  way?" 

"I  mean  that  it  gives  the  worst  side.    But  it  is  like." 

"I  suppose  that  portrait  is  still  in  Mr.  Garstin's  studio  ?" 

"I  suppose  it  is.  I  haven't  seen  Mr.  Garstin  for  two  or 
three  days.    But  I  suppose  it's  there." 

"Please  give  me  Mr.  Garstin's  address — the  studio  address," 
said  Sir  Seymour. 

"Yes." 

She  got  up  again  and  went  to  the  writing-table.  There 
seemed  to  her  to  be  something  deadly  in  this  interview.  She 
could  not  feel  humanity  in  it.  Sir  Seymour  was  terribly  im- 
personal. There  was  something  almost  machine  like  about  him. 
She  did  not  know  him  well,  but  how  different  he  had  been 
to  her  in  Berkeley  Square!  There  he  had  been  a  charming 
old  courtier.  He  had  shown  a  sort  of  gallant  admiration  of 
her.  He  had  beamed  kindly  upon  her  youth  and  her  daring. 
Now  he  showed  nothing. 

But— Adela  had  told  him ! 

She  wrote  down  Dick  Garstin's  address  in  Glebe  Place,  and 
was  about  to  come  away  from  the  writing-table  when  Sir 
Seymour  said: 

Could  you  also  kindly  give  me  your  card  with  a  line  of 
introduction  to  Mr.  Garstin?    I  don't  know  him." 

"Oh,  I  will  of  course!" 

She  found  one  of  her  cards  and  hesitated. 

"What  shall  I  put?"  she  asked. 

"You  might  put  To  introduce,'  and  then  my  name." 

"Yes." 

She  wrote  the  words  on  the  card. 

"Perhaps  it  might  be  as  well  to  add  'Please  see  him/  and 
underline  it.  I  understand  Mr.  Garstin  is  a  brusque  sort  of 
fellow." 

"Yes,  he  is." 

She  added  the  words  he  had  suggested. 

"It's  very— it's  more  than  kind  of  you  to  take  all  this  trouble," 
she  said,  again  coming  to  him.    "I  am  ashamed." 

She  gave  him  the  card.    She  could  not  look  into  his  face. 

"I  am  ashamed,"  she  repeated,  in  a  low  voice. 


502  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

"Well  now,"  he  said,  "try  to  get  the  matter  off  your  mind. 
Don't  give  way  to  useless  fears.  Most  of  us  fear  far  more 
than  there  is  any  occasion  for." 

He  stood  up. 

"Yes?^' 

"If  you  wish  for  me,  call  me  up.  I  am  at  St.  James's  Palace. 
But  I  don't  suppose  you  will  have  need  of  me.  By  the  way, 
there's  one  thing  more  I  perhaps  ought  to  ask  you.  Forgive 
me!  Has  there  ever  been  anything  in  the  nature  of  a  threat 
from  this  fellow?" 

"Oh,  no !"  she  said.    "No,  no,  no !" 

She  was  swallowing  sobs  that  suddenly  began  rising  in  her 
throat,  sobs  of  utter  shame  and  of  stricken  vanity. 

"It's  all  too  horrible !"  she  thought. 

For  a  moment  she  hated  the  straight-backed,  soldierly  old 
man  who  was  standing  before  her.  For  he  saw  her  in  the  dust, 
where  no  one  ought  ever  to  see  her. 

"He's  in  love  with  me !"  she  said. 

It  was  as  if  the  words  were  forced  out  of  her  against  her 
will.  Directly  she  had  said  them  she  bitterly  regretted  them. 
They  were  the  cr>-  of  her  undying  vanit}-  that  must  tr}-  to  put 
itself  right,  to  stand  up  for  itself  at  whatever  cost.  Directly 
she  had  spoken  them  she  saw  a  slight  t^^'itch  pull  the  left  side 
of  his  face  upward.  It  had  upon  her  a  moral  effect.  She  felt 
it  as  his  irresistible  comment — a  comment  of  the  body,  but 
coming  from  elsewhere — on  her  and  her  nature,  and  her  recent 
association  with  Arabian.  And  suddenly  her  hatred  died,  and 
she  longed  to  do  something  to  establish  herself  in  his  regard, 
to  gain  his  respect. 

Already  he  was  holding  out  his  hand  to  her.  She  took  his 
hand  and  held  it  tightly. 

"Don't  think  too  badly  of  me,"  she  said  imploringly.  "I 
want  you  not  to.  Because  I  think  you  see  clearly — you  see 
people  as  they  are.  You  saw  Adela  as  she  is.  And  perhaps 
no  one  else  did.  But  you  don't  know  how  fine  she  is — even  you 
don't.  I  had  treated  her  badly.  I  had  been  unkind  to  her, 
ver>'  unkind.  I  had — I  had  been  spiteful  to  her,  and  tried 
to  harm  her  happiness.  And  yet  she  told  me!  I  am  sure  no 
other  woman  would  ever  have  done  what  she  has  done." 

"She  had  to  do  it,"  he  said  gravely. 


CHAPTER  XI  DECEMBER  LOVE  503 

But  his  hand  now  shghtly  pressed  hers. 

"Had  to?     But  why?" 

"Because  she  happens  to  be  a  thoroughbred." 

"Ah !"  she  breathed. 

She  was  looking  into  his  dark  old  eyes,  and  now  they  were 
kind,  almost  soft. 

"We  must  take  care,"  he  added,  "that  what  she  has  done 
shall  not  be  done  in  vain.    We  owe  her  that.    Good-bye." 

"And  you  don't  think  too  badly  about  me  ?" 

"Once  I  called  you  the  daffodil  girl  to  her." 

"Did  you?" 

"Youth  is  pretty  cruel  sometimes.  When  you've  forgotten 
all  this,  don't  forget  to  be  kind." 

"To  her!    But  how  could  I?" 

"But  I  don't  mean  only  to  her !" 

And  then  he  left  her. 

When  he  had  gone  she  sat  still  for  a  long  while,  thinking. 
And  the  strange  thing  was  that  for  once  she  was  not  thinking 
about  herself. 


CHAPTER  XII 

RATHER  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day,  towards 
half-past  five,  Dick  Garstin,  who  was  alone  in  his  studio 
upstairs  smoking  a  pipe  and  reading  Delacroix's  "Mon  Jour- 
nal," heard  his  door  bell  ring.  He  was  stretched  out  on  a 
divan,  and  he  lay  for  a  moment  without  moving,  puffing  at  his 
pipe  with  the  book  in  his  hand.  Then  he  heard  the  bell  again, 
and  got  up.  Arabian's  portrait  stood  on  its  easel  in  the  middle 
of  the  room.  Garstin  glanced  at  it  as  he  went  toward  the 
stairs.  Since  the  day  when  he  had  shown  it  for  the  first  time 
to  Beryl  Van  Tuyn  and  Arabian  he  had  not  seen  either  of  them. 
Nor  had  he  had  a  word  from  them.  This  had  not  troubled  him. 
Already  he  was  at  work  on  another  sitter,  a  dancer  in  the  Rus- 
sian ballet,  talented,  decadent,  impertinent,  and,  so  Garstin 
believed,  marked  out  for  early  death  in  a  madhouse — alto- 
gether quite  an  interesting  study.  But  now,  looking  at  Arabian's 
portrait,  Garstin  thought: 

"Probably  the  man  himself.  I  knew  he  would  come  back, 
and  we  should  have  a  battle.    Now  for  it !" 

And  he  smiled  as  he  went  striding  downstairs. 

But  when  he  opened  the  door  he  found  standing  outside  in 
the  foggy  darkness  a  tall,  soldierly  old  man,  with  an  upright 
figure,  white  hair  and  moustache,  a  lined  red  face  and  dark 
eyes  which  looked  straight  into  his. 

"Who  are  you,  sir  ?"  said  Garstin.    "And  what  do  you  want  ?" 

"Are  you  Mr.  Dick  Garstin?"  said  the  old  man. 

"Or  rather,  elderly,"  Garstin  now  said  to  himself,  glancing 
sharply  over  his  visitor's  strong,  lean  frame  and  broad  shoulders. 

"Yes,  I  am." 

The  stranger  opened  a  leather  case  and  took  out  a  card. 

"Perhaps  you  will  kindly  read  that." 

Garstin  took  the  card. 

"Beryl !"  he  said.    "What's  up  ?" 

504 


CHAPTER  xn  DECEMBER  LOVE  505 

And  he  read :  "To  introduce  Sir  Seymour  Portman,  please  see 
him.    B.V.T." 

"Are  you  Sir  Seymour  Portman  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Come  in." 

Sir  Seymour  stepped  in. 

"Take  off  your  coat?" 

"If  you'll  allow  me.    I  won't  keep  you  long." 

"The  longer  the  better!"  said  Garstin  with  offhand  hearti- 
ness.   He  had  taken  a  liking  to  his  visitor  at  first  sight. 

"A  damned  fine  old  chap !"  had  been  his  instant  mental  com- 
ment on  seeing  Sir  Seymour.    "A  fellow  to  swear  by !" 

"Come  upstairs.     I'll  show  you  the  way,"  he  added. 

He  tramped  up  and  Sir  Seymour  followed  him. 

"I  do  most  of  my  painting  here,"  said  Garstin.  "Sit  down. 
Have  a  cigar." 

"Thank  you  very  much,  but  I  won't  smoke,"  said  Sir  Sey- 
mour, looking  round  casually  at  the  portraits  in  the  room  be- 
fore sitting  down  and  crossing  his  right  leg  over  his  left  leg. 
"And  I  won't  take  up  your  time  for  more  than  a  few  minutes." 

At  this  moment  he  noticed  at  some  distance  the  portrait  of 
Arabian  on  its  easel,  and  he  put  up  his  eyeglasses.  Then  he 
moved. 

"Will  you  allow  me  to  look  at  that  portrait  over  there?"  he 
asked. 

"Rather !    It's  the  last  thing  I've  done,  and  not  so  bad  either !" 

Sir  Seymour  got  up  and  went  to  stand  in  front  of  the  por- 
trait. He  was  puzzled,  and  his  faced  showed  that ;  he  frowned 
and  pursed  his  lips,  bending  forward. 

"This  is  a  portrait  of  a  man  called  Arabian,  isn't  it?"  he  said 
at  length,  turning  round  to  Garstin. 

"Yes.    D'you  know  the  fellow  ?" 

"I  haven't  that — ^privilege,"  replied  Sir  Seymour  with  an 
extraordinarily  dry  intonation.  "But  I  must  have  seen  him 
somewhere." 

"About  town.    He's  been  here  some  time." 

"But  he's  altered!"  said  Sir  Seymour,  still  looking  hard  at 
the  portrait 

"I'm  not  a  photographer,  you  know!" 

"A  photographer!"  said  Sir  Seymour,  who  was  something 


606  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

of  a  connoisseur  in  painting,  and  had  a  few  good  specimens 
of  the  Barbizon  School  in  his  apartment  at  St.  James's  Palace. 
"No.  This  isn't  a  photograph  in  paint.  It's  a" — he  gazed 
again  at  the  portrait — "it's  a  masterly  study  of  a  remarkable 
and  hideous  personality." 

"Hideous !"  said  Garstin  sharply. 

"Yes,  hideous,"  said  Sir  Seymour  grimly.  "An  abominable 
face!    Ah!" 

He  had  been  bending,  but  now  pulled  himself  up. 

"I  saw  that  man  at  the  Ritz  Hotel  a  good  many  years  ago," 
he  said.  "I  was  giving  a  lunch.  He  was  lunching  close  by 
with — let  me  see — an  old  woman,  yes,  in  a  rusty  black  wig. 
Someone  spoke  to  me  about  him,  and  I ,  Yes !  I  remem- 
ber it  all  perfectly.  But  he  looked  much  younger  then.  It  must 
be  over  ten  years  ago.  I  spotted  him  at  once  as  a  shady  char- 
acter. One  would,  of  course.  But  you  have  brought  it  all 
to  the  surface  in  some  subtle  way.    Does  he  like  it  ?" 

"To  tell  the  truth  I  don't  believe  he  does." 

"I  wish  to  speak  to  you  about  that  man." 

"Sit  down  again.    Have  a  whisky?" 

"No,  thanks." 

"What  is  it  ?    Are  the  police  after  him  ?" 

"I'm  not  aware  of  it." 

"I  know  everything  about  him,  as  you  see" — he  shot  out  an 
arm  towards  the  portrait — "and  nothing.  I  picked  him  up  at 
the  Cafe  Royal.     He's  a  magnificent  specimen." 

"No  doubt.  What  I  want  to  know  is  whether  you  will  allow 
me  to  bring  two  or  three  people  here  to  see  this  portrait?  I'm 
doing  this — I'm  here  now,  and  want  to  come  here  again,  if 
you  are  so  kind  as  to  allow  me " 

"Always  jolly  glad  to  see  you!"  interjected  Garstin,  with 
a  sort  of  gruff  heartiness. 

"Thank  you!  I'm  doing  this  for  your  friend.  Miss  Van 
Tuyn." 

"Ha !"  said  Garstin. 

"I  don't  think  I  need  go  into  the  matter  further  than  to 
say  that  she  does  not  wish  to  have  anything  more  to  do  with 
this  Mr.  Arabian." 

"Oh,  she's  found  him  out  at  last,  has  she,  and  put  you 
up  to " 


CHAPTER  XII  DECEMBER  LOVE  507 

Garstin  paused.    Then  he  added : 

"It's  like  Beryl's  cheek  to  ask  a  man  of  your  type  to  inter- 
fere in  such  a  matter.  Fellows  like  Arabian  are  hardly  in  your 
Una." 

"Oh,  I've  had  to  deal  with  men  of  all  classes." 

"And  quite  able  to,  I  should  say.  So  Beryl's  had  enough 
of  that  chap  ?" 

"Mr,  Garstin,  I  am  going  to  be  frank  with  you,  frank  to  this 
extent.    Arabian  is  a  blackguard." 

"No  news  to  me!" 

"Miss  Van  Tuyn  can  have  no  further  acquaintance  with  him, 
and  I  am  going  to  do  my  best  to  see  to  that.  But  I  believe 
this  fellow  is  very  persistent." 

"I  should  say  so.  He's  a  hard  nut  to  crack.  You  may  de- 
pend on  that." 

"And  therefore  strong  measures  may  be  necessary." 

"Whom  do  you  want  to  bring  here  to  look  at  my  stuff?" 

"Two  or  three  officials  from  Scotland  Yard." 

Garstin  uttered  the  thrush's  song  through  half-closed  lips. 

"That's  it!  Well,  you  can  bring  them  along  whenever  you 
like." 

"Thank  you.  They  may  not  be  art  experts,  but  they,  or  one 
of  them,  may  possibly  be  useful  for  my  purpose." 

"Right  you  are !  So  you  know  something  definite  about  the 
fellow?" 

"Yes." 

"Don't  bother  yourself !  I  don't  want  to  know  what  it  is," 
snapped  out  Garstin  abruptly. 

Sir  Seymour  smiled,  and  it  was  almost  what  Lady  Selling- 
worth  called  his  "beaming"  smile.  He  got  up  and  held  out 
his  hand. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said. 

Garstin  gave  him  a  strong  grip. 

"Glad  I've  met  you!"  he  said.  "Beryl's  done  me  a  good 
turn." 

"Perhaps  you  will  allow  me  to  say— though  I'm  no  expert, 
and  my  opinion  may  therefore  have  no  value  in  your  eyes — 
that  you've  painted  a  portrait  such  as  one  very  seldom  sees 
nowadays." 

"D'you  mean  you  think  it's  fine?" 


608  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

"Very  fine!    Wonderful!" 

Garstin's  usually  hard  face  softened  in  an  extraordinary  way. 

"Your  opinion  goes  down  in  my  memory  in  red  letters." 

Sir  Seymour  turned  to  go.  As  he  did  so  he  cast  a  look 
round  the  studio,  which  suggested  to  Garstin  that  he  would 
perhaps  like  to  examine  the  other  portraits  dotted  about  on 
easels  and  hanging  on  the  walls.  A  faint  reddish  hue  appeared 
in  the  painter's  shaven  blue  cheeks. 

"Not  worth  your  while !"  he  almost  muttered. 

"Eh?"  said  Sir  Seymour. 

"A  lot  of  decadent  stufif.     I've  been  choosing  my  models 

badly.     But "   he  paused,  looking  almost  diffident  for  a 

moment. 

"Yes?"  said  Sir  Seymour. 

"Perhaps,  if  we  ever  get  to  know  each  other  a  bit  better, 
you'd  let  me  have  a  shy  at  you  for  a  change?" 

"That  would  be  an  honour,"  said  Sir  Seymour  with  a  touch 
of  his  very  simple,  courtly  manner. 

"In  return  you  know  for  my  letting  in  the  detectives !"  said 
Garstin,  with  a  laugh.    "Hulloh!" 

He  had  heard  the  bell  ring  downstairs. 

"If  it's  our  man!"  he  said,  instinctively  lowering  his  voice. 

"Arabian!    Are  you  expecting  him?" 

"No.    But  it's  just  as  likely  as  not.    Want  to  meet  him?" 

"I  can  hardly  say  that!"  said  Sir  Seymour,  looking  sud- 
denly, Garstin  thought,  remarkably  like  a  very  well-bred  ramrod. 

"Well,  then " 

"But  it  may  be  necessary."  He  hesitated  obviously,  then 
added:  "If  it  should  be  Arabian  by  chance,  perhaps  it  would 
be  as  well  if  I  did  see  him." 

"Just  as  you  like." 

"I'll  stay  if  you  will  allow  me,"  said  Sir  Seymour,  with 
sudden  decision,  like  a  man  who  had  just  overcome  something. 

The  bell  rang  again. 

"Can  you  act?"  said  Garstin,  quickly. 

"Sufficiently,  I  dare  say,"  said  Sir  Seymour,  with  a  very 
faint  and  grim  smile. 

"Then  you'd  better !    He  can !" 

And  Garstin  sprang  down  the  stairs.  Two  or  three  minutes 
later  Arabian  walked  into  the  studio  with  Garstin  just  behind 


CHAPTER  XII  DECEMBER  LOVE  509 

him.  When  he  saw  Sir  Seymour  a  slight  look  of  surprise  came 
into  his  face,  and  he  half  turned  towards  Garstin  as  if  in 
inquiry.  Sir  Seymour  realized  that  Garstin  had  not  mentioned 
that  there  was  a  visitor  in  the  studio. 

"A  friend  of  mine,  Sir  Seymour  Portman,"  said  Garstin. 
"Mr.  Nicolas  Arabian !" 

Arabian  bowed  and  said  formally: 

"Very  glad  to  meet  you." 

Sir  Seymour  bowed,  and  said : 

"Thanks." 

"Sit  down,  my  boy!"  said  Garstin,  with  sudden  heartiness, 
laying  a  hand  on  Arabian's  shoulder.  "And  I  know  you'll 
put  your  lips  to  a  whisky." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Arabian. 

And  he  sat  down  in  a  deep  arm-chair.  Sir  Seymour  saw 
his  brown  eyes,  for  a  moment  hard  and  inquiring,  rest  upon 
the  visitor  he  had  not  expected  to  find,  and  wondered  whether 
Arabian  remembered  having  seen  him  before.  If  so  Arabian 
would  also  remember  that  he,  Seymour,  was  a  friend  of  Adela 
Sellingworth,  who  had  been  with  him  at  the  Ritz  on  that  day 
ten  years  ago. 

"Say  how  much,"  said  Garstin,  coming  up  with  the  whisky. 

Sir  Seymour  noticed  that  Arabian  took  a  great  deal  of  the 
spirit  and  very  little  soda-water  with  it.  Directly  his  glass  was 
filled — it  was  a  long  glass — he  drank  almost  greedily. 

"A  cigar  ?"  said  Garstin.     "But  I  know  without  asking." 

"I  do  not  refuse,"  said  Arabian. 

And  Sir  Seymour  hated  his  voice,  while  realizing  that  it  was 
agreeable,  perhaps  even  seductive. 

"There !  Now  we're  cozy !"  said  Garstin.  "But  I  wish  Sir 
Seymour  you'd  join  us !" 

"If  you  will  allow  me  I  will  smoke  a  light  cigar  I  have  here." 

And  Sir  Seymour  drew  out  a  cigar-case  and  lit  up  a  pale  and 
long  Havannah. 

"That's  better!'  said  Garstin,  drinking.  "How's  Beryl,  my 
boy?* 

"I  have  not  seen  Miss  Van  Tuyn  to-day,"  said  Arabian. 
"But  I  hope  to  see  her  to-morrow." 

He  looked  at  Sir  Seymour,  and  there  seemed  to  be  a  flicker 
of  suspicion  in  his  eyes. 


510  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

"Do  you  know  Miss  Van  Tuyn?"  he  asked. 

"Very  slightly,"  said  Sir  Seymour.  "I  have  met  her  once  or 
twice  in  London.     She  is  a  very  beautiful  creature." 

There  was  constraint  in  the  room.  Sir  Seymour  felt  it 
strongly  and  feared  that  it  came  from  something  in  him.  Evi- 
dently he  was  not  a  very  good  actor.  He  found  it  difficult  to 
be  easy  and  agreeable  with  a  man  whom  he  longed  to  get  hold 
of  by  the  collar  and  thrash  till  it  was  time  to  hand  him  over  to 
the  police.  But  he  resolved  to  make  a  strong  effort  to  conceal 
what  he  could  not  conquer.  And  he  began  to  talk  to  Arabian. 
Afterwards  he  could  not  remember  what  they  had  talked  about 
just  then.  He  could  only  remember  the  strangeness  which  he 
had  realized  as  he  sat  there  smoking  his  Havannah,  the  strange- 
ness of  life.  That  he  should  be  smoking  and  chatting  with 
the  scoundrel  who  had  changed  Adela's  existence,  who  had 
tricked  her,  robbed  her,  driven  her  into  the  solitude  which  had 
lasted  ten  years !  And  why  was  he  doing  it  ?  He  did  not  abso- 
lutely know.  But  his  instinct  had  told  him  to  stay  on  in  Gar- 
stin's  studio  when  everything  else  in  him,  revolting,  had  shrunk 
from  meeting  this  beast,  unless  and  until  he  could  deal  with  him 
properly. 

He  had  smoked  about  half  his  cigar,  and  the  constraint  in  the 
room  seemed  to  him  to  be  lessened,  though  not  abolished,  when 
the  conversation  took  a  turn  quite  unexpected  by  him.  And  all 
that  was  said  in  the  studio  from  that  moment  remained  firmly 
fiixed  in  his  memory.  Garstin  got  up  to  fetch  some  more  whisky 
for  Arabian,  whose  glass  was  now  empty,  and  as  he  came  back 
with  the  decanter  he  said  to  Arabian: 

"Sir  Seymour's  had  a  good  look  at  your  portrait,  Arabian." 

"Indeed !"  said  Arabian. 

"And  he  thinks  it's  damned  fine.  As  I'm  giving  it  to  you,  I 
thought  you'd  like  to  know  that  it's  appreciated." 

There  was  an  unmistakably  malicious  expression  on  Garstin's 
face  as  he  spoke,  and  his  small  eyes  travelled  quickly  from 
Arabian  to  Sir  Seymour. 

"In  fact,"  added  Garstin,  lifting  the  decanter  to  pour  the 
whisky  into  Arabian's  glass,  "Sir  Seymour  is  so  pleased  with 
my  work  that  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he  lets  me  paint  him." 

"Ah !"  said  Arabian,  looking  at  Sir  Seymour,  with  a  sudden 
hard  intensity  which  strangely  transformed  his  face,  "this  is 


CHAPTER  xii  DECEMBER  LOVE  511 

good  news.  I  am  pleased.  But— thank  you !"  (to  Garstin  who 
poured  out  some  whisky)  "that  will  do,  please !  But  you  are 
not  afraid  of  the  drawback  ?" 

"What  drawback?"  asked  Sir  Seymour. 

"Mr.  Dick  Garstin  makes  us  all  look  like  canaille!" 

"Indeed !" 

"But  have  you  not  noticed  this?"  said  Arabian. 

And  the  agreeable  softness  of  his  voice  altered,  giving  way 
to  an  almost  rasping  quality  of  sound.  He  put  down  his  glass 
and  got  up,  with  a  lithe  and  swift  movement  that  seemed  some- 
how menacing.  It  was  so  light,  so  agile,  so  noiseless  and  con- 
trolled. 

"Surely  you  have.     Please,  look  at  all  these !" 

He  made  a  sweeping  circular  movement  with  his  arm.  Sir 
Seymour  got  on  his  feet. 

"Do  you  not  see?  There  is  the  same  thing  in  all.  We  are 
all  placed  by  Mr.  Dick  Garstin  in  the  same  boat.  Even  the 
judge,  he  is  there  too.     Look!" 

Sir  Seymour  looked  from  canvas  to  canvas  and  then  at 
Arabian. 

"Well  ?"  said  Arabian,  still  in  the  rasping  voice.  "Do  I  say 
true?    Are  we  not  all  turned  into  canaille  by  Dick  Garstin?" 

Sir  Seymour  did  not  answer. 

"With  you  if  you  are  painted,"  continued  Arabian,  "it  will  be 
the  same.     Dick  Garstin  must  see  bad  in  us  all." 

He  laughed,  and  his  laugh  was  oddly  shrill  and  ugly. 

"It  is  an  idee  fixe,"  he  said.  "You  see,  I  am  frank.  I  say 
what  I  think,  Dick  Garstin." 

"No  objection  to  that!"  said  Garstin,  with  a  mischievous 
smile.  "But  if  you  don't  like  your  picture  you  won't  want  to 
have  it.     So  let  us  consider  our  bargain  cancelled." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Arabian,  "the  picture  is  mine." 

"The  bargain  we  made,"  said  Garstin,  turning  to  Sir  Sey- 
mour, "was  this:  Mr.  Arabian  was  to  be  kind  enough  to  sit 
to  me  on  two  conditions.  One  was  in  my  favour,  the  other  in 
his." 

"I  beg  your  pardon !"  said  Arabian  sharply. 

But  Garstin  continued  inflexibly: 

"I  was  to  have  the  right  to  exhibit  the  picture,  and,  after  that, 
I  was  to  hand  it  over  as  a  present  to  Arabian." 


612  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

"No,  that  was  not  the  bargain,  please!"  said  Arabian. 

"Not  the  bargain?"  said  Garstin,  with  an  air  of  humorous 
surprise. 

"Oh,  no.  You  kindly  said  that  if  I  gave  up  my  time  to  you, 
as  I  have  done,  very  much  of  my  time,  you  would  give  me  the 
picture  when  it  was  finished.  That  was  the  bargain  between  us. 
But  I  did  not  say  I  would  allow  you  to  exhibit  my  picture." 

"But  I  told  you  before  I  ever  put  a  smudge  of  paint  on  the 
canvas  that  I  should  want  to  exhibit  it." 

"That  is  quite  true." 

"Well,  then?" 

"Two  must  speak  to  make  a  bargain.  Is  it  not  so?"  He 
spoke  to  Sir  Seymour. 

"I  presume  so,"  said  the  latter,  very  solemnly. 

He  had  realized  that  this  odd  scene  had  been  brought  about 
deliberately,  and  perhaps  by  both  of  the  men  who  stood  before 
him.  Garstin  had  certainly  started  it,  but  Arabian  had  surely, 
with  purpose,  taken  the  cue  from  Garstin. 

"Ah!     You  hear!" 

"I  do!"  said  Garstin,  composedly. 

"Well,  Dick  Garstin,  I  did  not  say  I  would  permit  my  pic- 
ture to  be  exhibited  by  you.  And  that  was  on  purpose.  I  in- 
tended to  wait  until  I  saw  how  you  would  make  me  appear.  I 
have  waited.  There  I  am !"  He  pointed  to  the  portrait.  "It 
is  fine,  perhaps,  as  you  say.  But  I  do  not  choose  that  people 
should  see  that  and  be  told,  'That  is  Nicolas  Arabian.'  I  do 
not  give  you  permission  to  show  that  portrait." 

"You  don't  like  it?" 

"You  have  made  of  me  a  beast.     That  is  what  I  say." 

"Sorry  you  think  so !  But  what's  to  be  done?  That  picture 
is  worth  from  eight  hundred  to  a  thousand  pounds  at  the  very 
least.  You  don't  suppose  I  am  going  to  give  it  to  you  without 
letting  the  people  who  care  about  my  stuff  have  a  look  at  it? 
Why,  where  is  your  sense  of  fairness,  my  boy?" 

"I  do  not  know  really  what  you  mean  by  that !" 

"Well,  I  ask  you,  Sir  Seymour,  would  it  be  fair  that  I  should 
have  all  my  trouble  for  nothing?  He  can  have  the  picture. 
But  I  want  my  kudos.     Eh?" 

"I  quite  understand  that,'"  said  Sir  Seymour,  calmly. 


CHAPTER  XII  DECEMBER  LOVE  618 

Arabian  turned  round  and  faced  him.  And  as  he  did  so  Sir 
Seymour  said  to  himself : 

"The  fellow's  been  drinking  heavily." 

This  thought  had  not  occurred  in  his  mind  till  this  moment, 
but  he  felt  certain  that  Garstin's  sharp  eyes  had  noticed  the  fact 
sooner,  probably  directly  they  had  seen  Arabian  at  the  street 
door.  No  doubt  the  very  stiff  whisky-and-soda  Arabian  had 
just  drunk  had  made  it  more  obvious.  Anyhow,  Sir  Seymour 
had  no  doubt  at  all  about  it  now.  It  was  not  noticeable  in 
Arabian's  face.  But  his  manner  began  to  show  it  to  the  experi- 
enced eyes  of  the  old  campaigner. 

"But,  please,  do  you  understand  my  feeling  ?  Would  you  like 
to  be  made  what  you  are  not — a  beast?" 

Sir  Seymour  saw  Garstin,  perhaps  with  difficulty,  shutting 
off  a  smile. 

"I  can't  say  I  should,"  he  answered,  with  absolute  gravity. 

"Would  you,"  pursued  Arabian,  apparently  in  desperate  earn- 
est, "would  you  allow  a  picture  of  you  like  this  to  be  shown  to 
all  your  friends?" 

"I  think,"  returned  Sir  Seymour,  still  with  an  absolute  and 
simple  gravity,  "that  I  should  object  to  that — strongly." 

"You  hear !"  said  Arabian  to  Garstin.  "It  is  your  own  friend 
who  says  this." 

"I  can't  help  that,"  said  Garstin,  totally  unperturbed.  "I'm 
going  to  exhibit  that  picture." 

"No !  No !"  said  Arabian. 

And  as  he  spoke  he  suddenly  bared  his  teeth. 

Garstin,  without  making  any  rejoinder  to  this  almost  brutally 
forcible  exclamation,  which  was  full  of  violent  will,  thrust  a 
hand  into  his  waistcoat  pocket  and  pulled  out  a  big  gold  watch. 

"I  say,  I'm  awfuly  sorry,"  he  said,  with  a  swift  glance  at 
Sir  Seymour,  which  the  latter  did  not  miss,  "but  I  must  tuni 
you  both  out.  I'm  dining  at  the  Arts  Club  to-night.  Jinks-- 
you  know  the  Slade  Jinks— is  coming  to  pick  me  up.  You'll 
forgive  me.  Sir  Seymour?" 

His  voice  was  unusually  gentle  as  he  said  the  last  words. 

"Of  course.  I've  stayed  an  unconscionable  time.  Are  you 
going  my  way,  Mr.  Arabian?" 

Garstin's  mouth  twitched.  Before  Arabian  could  reply,  Gar- 
stin said: 


614  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

"Look  here,  Arabian!" 

"Yes — ^please  ?"  said  Arabian. 

"You  and  I  differ  pretty  badly  about  this  business  of  your 
damned  portrait.' 

"Ah,  yes !" 

"Sir  Seymour's  a  just  man,  a  very  just  man.  Let's  hear  what 
he  has  to  say." 

"But  you  tell  us  you  have  no  time!" 

"Exactly!  Jinks  you  know!  He's  a  devil  for  punctuality. 
They  set  the  clocks  by  him  at  the  Slade !    But  you " 

"Yes?" 

"Talk  it  over  with  Sir  Seymour.  Get  his  unbiased  verdict. 
And  let  me  hear  from  you  any  time  to-morrow.  He'll  say 
what's  fair  and  square.     I  know  that." 

While  speaking  he  went  towards  the  head  of  the  stairs,  fol- 
lowed by  Sir  Seymour  and  Arabian.  As  Arabian  passed  the 
place  where  the  whisky  stood  he  picked  up  his  glass  and  drank 
it  off  at  a  gulp. 

A  minute  later  Sir  Seymour  and  he  were  out  in  the  night 
together. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WHICH  way  do  you  go,  please?"  asked  Arabian. 
"I'll  go  your  way  if  you  like.     I  live  in  St.  James's 
Palace.     But  I'm  in  no  hurry.     Do  you  live  in  my  direction?" 

"Oh,  no.     I  live  quite  near  in  Chelsea." 

"I  can  walk  to  your  door  th»n  if  you  don't  mind  having  my 
company,"  said  Sir  Seymour. 

"Thank  you!" 

And  they  walked  on  together  in  silence.  Sir  Seymour  won- 
dered what  was  passing  in  the  mind  of  the  man  beside  him. 
He  felt  sure  that  Arabian  had  been  at  first  suspicious  of  him 
in  the  studio.  Had  he  been  able  by  his  manner  to  lull  that  sus- 
picion to  rest  ?  He  was  inclined  to  believe  so.  But  it  was  im- 
possible for  him  to  be  sure.  After  two  or  three  minutes  of 
silence  he  spoke  again.  But  he  made  no  allusion  to  the  recent 
scene  in  the  studio,  or  to  Garstin's  parting  words.  His  instinct 
counselled  silence  on  that  point.  So  he  talked  of  London,  the 
theatres,  the  affairs  of  the  day,  trying  to  seem  natural,  like  a 
man  of  the  world  with  a  casual  acquaintance.  He  noticed  that 
Arabian's  answers  and  comments  were  brief.  Sometimes  when 
he  did  speak  he  spoke  at  random.  It  was  obvious  that  he  was 
preoccupied.  He  seemed  to  Sir  Seymour  to  be  brooding  darkly 
over  something.  This  state  of  things  continued  until  they 
reached  Rose  Tree  Gardens. 

"This  is  it,"  said  Arabian,  stopping  before  the  big  porch. 

Sir  Seymour  stopped,  too,  hesitated,  then  said  : 

"I'll  say  good  night  to  you." 

Arabian  shot  a  piercing  and  morose  glance  at  him,  moved 
his  right  hand  as  if  about  to  extend  it,  dropped  it  and  said : 

"Well,  but  we  have  not  spoken  any  more  about  my  picture !" 

"No." 

"Dick  Garstin  said  you  would  decide." 

"Scarcely  that— was  it?" 

"But  I  think  it  was." 

515 


616  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

"Well,  but  it's  really  not  my  affair." 

"But  he  made  it  so." 

"Perhaps.     But  you  didn't  say " 

"But  I  should  like  to  know  what  you  think." 

"Very  good  of  you.  But  I'm  an  outsider.  I  wasn't  there 
when  you  made  what  you  say  was  a  bargain." 

"No,  but " 

Again  he  sent  a  piercing  glance  to  Sir  Seymour,  who  received 
it  with  absolute  sangfroid,  and  stood  looking  completely  de- 
tached, firm  and  simple.  At  that  moment  Sir  Seymour  felt 
positive  that  a  struggle  was  going  on  in  Arabian  in  which  the 
drink  he  had  taken  was  playing  a  part.  The  intensely  suspi- 
cious nature  of  the  enemy  of  society,  always  on  the  alert,  be- 
cause always  liable  to  be  in  danger,  was  at  odds  with  the  demon 
that  steals  away  the  wits  of  men,  unchains  their  recklessness, 
unlocks  their  tongues,  uncovers  often  their  most  secret  inclina- 
tions. Arabian  was  hesitating.  At  that  moment  the  least  thing 
would  turn  him  one  way  or  the  other,  would  prompt  him  to 
give  himself  to  the  intense  caution  which  was  probably  natural 
to  him,  or  would  drive  him  to  the  incaution  which  he  would 
regret  when  he  was  physically  normal  again.  It  seemed  to  Sir 
Seymour  that  he  knew  this,  and  that  he  had  it  in  his  power  just 
then  to  turn  the  scale,  to  make  it  drop  to  whichever  side  he 
wished.  And  as  Arabian  hesitated  at  that  moment  so  Sir  Sey- 
mour hesitated  too.  He  longed  to  get  away  from  the  man,  to 
have  done  with  him  forever.  But  he  had  put  his  hand  to  a 
task.  He  had  here  an  opportunity.  Garstin  had  certainly  given 
it  to  him  deliberately.  It  would  be  weak  not  to  take  advantage 
of  it.  He  was  not  accustomed  to  yield  to  his  weak  inclinations, 
and  he  resolved  not  to  do  so  now.  He  was  sure  that  if  he 
showed  the  least  sign  of  wishing  to  push  himself  into  Arabian's 
affairs  the  man  would  recoil  at  once,  in  spite  of  the  drink  which 
was  slightly,  but  definitely,  clouding  his  perceptions.  So  he 
took  the  contrary  course.  He  forced  himself  to  hold  out  his 
hand  to  the  beast,  and  said: 

"Well— good  night !" 

But  Arabian  did  not  take  his  hand. 

"Oh,  but  please  come  in  for  a  moment !"  he  said.  "Why  go 
away  ?" 

"It's  getting  late." 


CHAPTER  XIII  DECEMBER  LOVE  617 

"But  I  will  not  keep  you  long.  Dick  Garstin  said  you  should 
judge  between  us,  that  I  was  to  come  to-morrow  and  tell  him. 
I  know  you  will  say  I  have  the  right.  Come  up.  I  will  ex- 
plain to  you." 

"Very  well,"  said  Sir  Seymour,  with  apparent  reluctance, 
"but  really  I  must  not  stay  long." 

"No,  no !  You  are  very  good.  It  is  not  your  business.  But 
really  it  is  important.     Here !     We  will  take  the  elevator," 

As  he  got  into  the  lift  Sir  Seymour  wondered  whether  he 
could  have  tricked  Arabian  if  the  latter  had  not  been  drinking. 
While  the  lift  was  going  swiftly  and  smoothly  up  he  decided 
that  before  he  came  down  in  it  he  would  make  quite  plain  to 
Arabian  why  he  had  been  to  Dick  Garstin's  studio  that  day. 
The  opportunity  which  was  given  to  him  he  would  take  advan- 
tage of  to  the  full.  If  only  he  could  strike  a  blow  for  Adela 
instead  of  for  Miss  Van  Tuyn!  But  Adela  had  let  this  brute 
go.  And  could  she  have  done  anything  else?  For  she  had  had 
her  own  folly  to  be  afraid  of.    But  all  that  was  ten  years  ago. 

And  now She  was  diflFerent  now!    He  reiterated  that  to 

himself  as  he  stood  in  the  lift  almost  touching  Arabian.  Adela 
was  quite  different  now.  She  had  given  herself  to  the  best 
that  was  in  her. 

"Here  it  is!" 

The  lift  had  stopped.  They  got  out  on  a  landing,  and 
Arabian  put  a  key  into  a  door. 

"Do  please  take  off  your  coat.     It  is  all  warm  in  here !" 

"Yes,  and  some  brute's  been  burning  scent  in  a  shovel!" 
thought  Sir  Seymour,  as  he  stepped  into  the  flat. 

"I  think  I'll  keep  my  coat,"  he  said.  "I  shan't  be  staying 
long." 

"Oh,  if  you  are  in  such  a  hurry !"  said  Arabian,  with  sudden 
moody  irritation. 

He  shut  the  front  door  with  a  bang.  In  the  electric  light 
he  looked  tired  and  menacing.  At  least  Sir  Seymour  thought 
so.  But  the  light  in  the  little  hall  was  shaded  and  not  very 
strong. 

"You  will  be  much  too  hot  truly!"  said  Arabian. 

"Then  I'll  leave  my  coat,"  said  Sir  Seymour. 

And  he  took  it  off,  laid  it  on  a  chair  and  went  into  a  room 
on  the  left,  the  door  of  which  Arabian  held  open. 


618  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

"This  is  my  salon.  I  take  the  flat  furnished.  The  river 
is  there." 

He  pointed  towards  the  windows  now  covered  by  curtains. 

"Please  sit  down  by  the  fire.  I  will  explain.  I  know  you 
will  be  on  my  side." 

He  pressed  a  bell  on  the  right  of  the  mantelpiece. 

Almost  instantaneously  the  door  was  opened  and  a  thin  man — 
who  looked  about  thirty,  Sir  Seymour  thought — showed  him- 
self. He  had  a  very  dark  narrow  face  and  curiously  light-grey 
eyes.  Arabian  spoke  to  him  in  Spanish.  He  listened,  motion- 
less, turned  and  went  softly  out. 

"You  must  have  a  little  whisky  with  me,"  said  Arabian. 

"No,  thank  you !" 

"But— why  not?" 

"I  never  take  it  at  this  time." 

"Well,  I  must  have  some.  I  have  got  a  cold.  This  climate 
in  winter — it  is  awful !" 

He  shook  his  broad  shoulders  and  blinked  rapidly  several 
times,  then  suddenly  opened  his  eyes  very  wide  and  yawned. 

"Well  now !"  he  said.     "But  please  sit  down." 

Sir  Seymour  sat  down.  Arabian  stood  with  his  back  to  the 
fire  and  his  hands  thrust  into  his  trouser  pockets.  Sir  Seymour 
noticed  what  a  magnificently  made  man  he  was.  He  had  cer- 
tainly been  endowed  with  physical  gifts  for  the  undoing  of 
women.  But  his  brown  face,  strikingly  handsome  though  it 
undoubtedly  was,  had  the  hard  stamp  of  vice  on  it.  Long  ago 
at  a  first  glance  Sir  Seymour  had  seen  that  this  man  was  a 
wrong  'un,  and  now,  as  he  looked  at  Arabian,  he  found  himself 
wondering  how  anyone  could  fail  to  see  that. 

"Now  I  will  tell  you  exactly,"  Arabian  said. 

And  he  explained  carefully  and  lucidly  enough — though 
through  occasional  yawns — what  had  happened  between  Garstin 
and  himself.  He  did  not  mention  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  name.  As 
he  was  getting  towards  the  end  of  his  narrative  his  servant 
came  in  with  a  tray  on  which  were  bottles  and  glasses.  He 
said  nothing  and  Arabian  said  nothing  to  him,  but  went  on 
talking  and  did  not  appear  to  notice  him.  But  directly  he  had 
gone  Arabian  poured  out  some  whisky,  added  a  little  soda  and 
drank  it. 

"There !     That  is  how  we  did !"  he  said  at  last. 


CHAPTER  xni  DECEMBER  LOVE  519 

And  he  dropped  softly,  with  an  odd  lightness,  into  a  chair 
near  Sir  Seymour,  and  added : 

"Now,  have  I  not  the  right  over  the  picture?  Can  I  not 
send  to-morrow  and  take  it  away?     Is  that  not  just?" 

"Just!"  said  Sir  Seymour.  "Do  you  care  so  much  about 
justice  ?" 

"Eh?"  said  Arabian,  suddenly  leaning  forward  in  his  chair. 
"What  is  that?" 

The  bitter  sarcasm  which  Sir  Seymour  had  not  been  able  to 
keep  out  of  his  voice  had  evidently  startled  Arabian. 

"You  are  English,"  he  said,  as  Sir  Seymour  said  nothing. 
"Do  you  not  care  that  a  stranger  in  your  country  should  have 
justice?" 

"Oh,  yes.    I  care  very  much  about  that." 

The  intense  dryness  of  the  voice  that  answered  evidently 
made  an  impression  on  Arabian.  For  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  his 
guest  with  intense  and  hard  inquiry,  and  laid  his  brown  hands  on 
the  arms  of  his  chair,  as  if  in  readiness  for  something.  But  he 
only  said: 

"Well— please?" 

Sir  Seymour's  inclination  was  to  get  up.  But  he  did  not 
obey  it.  He  sat  without  moving,  and  returned  Arabian's  stare 
with  a  firm,  soldier's  gaze.  The  fearlessness  of  his  eyes  was 
absolute,  unflinching. 

"I  thoroughly  understand  why  you  don't  want  Mr.  Garstin 
to  show  people  that  picture,"  he  said. 

"Ah!" 

"The  biggest  fool  in  creation,  if  he  saw  it,  would  understand." 

"Understand  what — please  ?" 

"Understand  you." 

"Pardon!"  said  Arabian  sharply.     "What  do  you  mean?" 

He  was  up.     But  Sir  Seymour  sat  still. 

"Mr.  Garstin  has  uncovered  your  secret,"  he  said.  "A  man 
such  as  you  are  naturally  objects  to  that." 

"What  have  you  come  here  for?"  said  Arabian. 

"You  asked  me  to  come." 

"What  did  you  go  to  Dick  Garstin  for?" 

"That  is  my  business." 

Sir  Seymour  got  up  slowly,  very  deliberately  even,  from 

his  chair. 


520  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

"My  secret,  you  say.     What  do  you  know  about  me?" 

In  the  voice  there  was  intense  suspicion. 

"We  needn't  discuss  that.    I  am  not  going  to  discuss  it." 

"What  did  you  go  to  Dick  Garstin  for?" 

"I  went  to  ask  him  if  he  would  allow  me  to  bring  two  or  three 
people  to  his  studio  to  look  at  his  portrait  of  you." 

"My  portrait!  What  is  my  portrait  to  you?  Why  should 
you  bring  people?" 

But  Sir  Seymour  did  not  answer  the  question.  Instead  he 
put  one  hand  on  the  mantelpiece,  leaned  slightly  towards  Ara- 
bian, and  said : 

"You  wanted  my  verdict  on  the  rights  of  the  case  between 
you  and  Mr.  Garstin.  That  isn't  my  affair.  You  must  fight 
it  out  between  you.  But  I  should  seriously  advise  you  not 
to  take  too  long  over  the  quarrel.  You  said  just  now  that  the 
English  climate  was  awful.     Get  out  of  it  as  soon  as  you  can." 

"Get  out  of  it !     What  is  it  to  you  whether  I  stay  or  go?" 

"I'm  afraid  if  you  delay  here  much  longer  you  may  be  sorry 
for  it." 

"Who  are  you?"  said  Arabian  fiercely. 

"I'm  a  friend  of  Miss  Van  Tuyn." 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  me  ?  Why  do  you  try  to  interfere 
with  me?" 

"Miss  Van  Tuyn — I  saw  her  this  morning — wishes  me  to  see 
to  it  that  you  leave  her  alone,  get  out  of  her  life." 

"Are  you  her  father,  a  relation  ?" 

"No." 

"Then  what  have  you  to  do  with  it?  You — you  impertinent 
old  man!" 

Sir  Seymour's  brick-red,  weather-beaten  face  took  on  a 
darker,  almost  a  purplish,  hue,  and  the  hand  that  had  been  hold- 
ing the  mantelpiece  tightened  into  a  fist. 

"You  will  leave  this  young  lady  alone,"  he  said  sternly.  "Do 
you  hear?  You  will  leave  her  alone.  She  knows  what  you 
are." 

Arabian  had  pushed  out  his  full  under-lip  and  was  staring 
now  intently  at  Sir  Seymour.  His  gaze  was  intense,  and  yet 
there  was  a  cloudy  look  in  his  eyes.  The  effect  of  what  he  had 
drunk  was  certainly  increasing  upon  him  in  the  heat  of  the 
rather  small  room. 


CHAPTER  xni  DECEMBER  LOVE  521 

"When  I  came  into  the  studio,"  he  said  after  a  moment's 
silence,  "I  remembered  your  face,  and,  'Why  is  he  here  ?'  That 
was  my  thought.     Why  is  he  here  ?    Where  did  I  see  you  ?" 

"That  doesn't  matter.  You  will  give  up  your  acquaint- 
ance with  Miss  Van  Tuyn.  You  will  get  out  of  London.  And 
then  no  measures  will  be  taken  against  you." 

"Where  was  it?"  persisted  Arabian,  "Do  you  remember 
me?" 

"Yes,"  said   Sir  Seymour. 

He  debated  within  himself  for  an  instant,  and  then  took  a 
decision. 

"I  saw  you  at  the  Ritz  Hotel  in  Piccadilly  ten  years  or  more 
ago. 

"At  the  Ritz!" 

"I  was  lunching  with  a  friend.  I  was  lunching  with  Lady 
Sellingworth." 

"Ah !"  exclaimed  Arabian,  "That  was  it !  I  remember.  So 
— she  sent I  see!     I  see!" 

He  half  shut  his  eyes  and  a  vein  in  his  forehead  swelled,  giv- 
ing to  his  brow  a  look  of  violence. 

"She  has She  has " 

He  shut  his  mouth  with  a  snap  of  the  teeth.  Sir  Seymour 
was  aware  of  a  struggle  taking  place  in  him.  Something,  urged 
on  by  drink,  was  fighting  hard  with  his  natural  caution.  But 
the  caution,  long  trained,  no  doubt,  and  kept  in  almost  perpetual 
use,  was  fighting  hard  too. 

"No  one  sent  me,"  said  Sir  Seymour  with  contempt,  "But 
that's  no  matter.  You  understand  now  that  you  are  to  leave 
this  young  lady  alone.  Her  acquaintance  with  you  has  ceased. 
It  won't  be  renewed.  \i  you  call  on  her  you  will  be  sent  off. 
If  you  write  to  her  your  letters  will  be  burnt  without  being 
read.  If  you  try  to  persecute  her  in  any  way  means  will  be 
found  to  protect  her  and  to  punish  you.     I  shall  see  to  that." 

Arabian's  mouth  was  still  tightly  shut  and  he  was  standing 
quite  still  and  seemed  to  be  thinking,  or  trying  to  think,  deeply. 
For  his  eyes  now  had  a  curiously  inward  look.  If  Sir  Seymour 
had  expected  a  burst  of  rage  as  the  sequel  to  his  very  plain 
speaking  he  was  deceived.  Apparently  this  man  was  serenely 
beyond  that  society  in  which  a  human  being  can  be  insulted  and 
resent  it.     Or  else  had  he  been  thinking  with  such  intensity  that 


622  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

he  had  not  even  heard  what  had  just  been  said  to  him?  For  a 
moment  Sir  Seymour  was  inclined  to  believe  so.  And  he  was 
about  to  reiterate  what  he  had  said,  to  force  it  on  Arabian's  at- 
tention, when  the  latter  stopped  him. 

"Yes— yes!"  he  said.     "I  hear!     Do  not!" 

He  seemed  to  be  turning  something  over  in  his  mind  with 
complete  self-possession  under  the  eyes  of  the  man  who  had 
just  scornfully  attacked  him.     At  last  he  said : 

"I  fear  I  was  rude  just  now.  You  startled  me.  I  said  it  was 
impertinence.  But  I  see,  I  understand  now.  The  women — 
they  are  clever.  And  when  age  comes — ah,  we  have  no  longer 
much  defence  against  them," 

And  he  smiled. 

"What  d'you  mean?"  said  Sir  Seymour,  longing  to  knock 
the  fellow  down,  and  feeling  an  almost  insuperable  difficulty 
in  retaining  his   self-control. 

"This  I  mean !  You  say  you  come  to  me  sent  by  Miss  Van 
Tuyn.  But  I  say — no  I  You  come  to  me  sent  by  Lady  Selling- 
worth." 

Sir  Seymour  was  startled.  Was  the  fellow  so  brazen  that 
he  was  going  to  allude  to  what  had  happened  over  ten  years 
ago?  That  seemed  incredible,  but  with  such  a  man  perhaps 
everything  was  possible. 

"It  is  like  this !"  continued  Arabian,  in  a  suave  and  explana- 
tory voice.  "Lady  Sellingworth  she  hates  Miss  Van  Tuyn. 
They  have  quarrelled  about  a  young  man.  His  name  is  Craven. 
I  have  met  him  in  a  restaurant.  I  dine  there  with  IMiss  Van 
Tuyn.  He  dines  there  that  night  with  Lady  Sellingworth,  who 
is  in  love  with  him,  as  old  women  are  with  nice-looking  boys, 
and " 

"Hold  your  tongue,  you  infernal  blackguard !" 

"Miss  Van  Tuyn  calls  Craven  to  us,  and  Lady  Sellingworth 
is  so  jealous  that  she  runs  out  of  the  restaurant,  so  that  he  is 
obliged  to  follow  her  and  leave  Miss  Van  Tuyn " 

"You  damned  ruffian !'  said  Sir  Seymour. 

His  face  was  congested  with  anger.  He  put  out  his  arm  as 
if  he  were  going  to  seize  Arabian  by  the  collar  of  his  jacket. 
For  once  in  his  hfe  he  "saw  red";  for  once  he  was  forced  by 
indignation  into  saying  something  he  would  never  have  said 
had  he  given  himself  time  to  think.     He  was  carried  away  by 


CHAPTER  xiii  DECEMBER  LOVE  623 

impulse  like  a  youth  in  spite  of  his  years,  of  his  white  hair, 
of  his  immense  natural  self-control. 

Arabian  moved  backwards  with  a  swift,  wary  movement. 
Sir  Seymour  did  not  follow  him.  He  stood  where  he  was  and 
said  again: 

"You  damned  ruffian!  If  you  don't  get  out  of  the  country 
I'll  set  the  police  on  you." 

"Indeed!     What  for,  please?" 

"For  stealing  Lady  Sellingworth's  jewels  in  Paris  ten  years 
ago!" 

Arabian  bared  his  teeth  like  an  animal  and  half  shut  his  eyes. 
There  was  a  strange  look  about  his  temples,  as  if  under  the 
deep  brown  of  his  skin  something  had  gone  suddenly  white. 

"Miss  Van  Tuyn  knows  that  you  stole  them !" 

Arabian  drew  in  his  breath  sharply.     His  mouth  opened  wide* 

Sir  Seymour  turned  and  went  out  of  the  room.  He  shut  the 
door  behind  him.  In  the  little  scented  hall  he  caught  up  his 
coat  and  hat.  He  heard  a  door  click.  The  dark  man  with  the 
light  grey  eyes  showed  himself. 

"Keep  away,  you !"  said  Sir  Seymour. 

The  man  stood  where  he  was,  and  Sir  Seymour  went  out  of 
the  flat 


CHAPTER  XIV 

WHEN  Sir  Seymour  was  going  out  of  the  main  hall  of  the 
building  in  which  Arabian  lived  a  taxicab  happened  to 
drive  up.  A  man  got  out  of  it  and  paid  the  chauffeur.  Sir 
Seymour  made  a  sign  to  the  chauffeur,  who  jerked  his  head  and 
said: 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Drive  me  to  Claridge's  Hotel,  please,"  said  Sir  Seymour. 

He  got  into  the  taxicab  and  was  soon  away  in  the  night. 
When  he  reached  the  hotel  he  went  to  the  bureau  and  inquired 
if  Miss  Van  Tuyn  was  at  home.  The  man  at  the  bureau,  who 
knew  him  well,  said  that  she  was  in,  that  she  had  not  been  out 
all  day.  He  would  inquire  at  once  if  she  was  at  home  to  visi- 
tors. As  he  spoke  he  looked  at  Sir  Seymour  with  an  air  of 
discreet  interest.  After  a  moment  at  the  telephone  he  asked 
Sir  Seymour  to  go  upstairs,  and  called  a  page-boy  to  accompany 
him  and  show  him  the  way. 

"Henriques,"  said  Sir  Seymour,  pausing  as  he  was  about 
to  follow  the  page.     "You're  a  discreet  fellow,  I  know." 

"I  hope  so,  Sir  Seymour." 

"If  by  any  chance  a  man  called  Arabian  should  come  here 
while  I  am  upstairs,  get  rid  of  him,  will  you?  I  am  speaking 
on  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  behalf  and  with  her  authority." 

"I  won't  let  the  gentleman  up,  Sir  Seymour." 

"Has  he  called  to-day  ?" 

"Yes,  Sir  Seymour.  He  called  early  this  afternoon.  I  had 
orders  to  say  Miss  Van  Tuyn  and  Miss  Cronin  were  both  out. 
He  wrote  a  note  downstairs  which  was  sent  up." 

"He  may  call  again  at  any  time.     Get  rid  of  him." 

"Yes,  Sir  Seymour." 

"Thanks.     I  rely  on  your  discretion." 

And  Sir  Seymour  went  towards  the  lift,  where  the  page-boy 
was  waiting. 

524 


CHAPTER  XIV  DECEMBER  LOVE  525 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  met  him  at  the  threshold  of  her  sitting-room. 
She  was  very  pale.    She  greeted  him  eagerly. 

"How  good  of  you  to  call  again!  Do  come  in.  I  haven't 
stirred.     I  haven't  been  out  all  day." 

She  shut  the  sitting-room  door. 

"He  has  been  here!" 

"So  I  heard." 

"How  ?    Who  has " 

"I  ventured  to  speak  to  Henriques,  the  young  man  at  the 
bureau,  before  coming  up.  I  know  him  quite  well.  I  took 
it  on  myself  to  give  an  order  on  your  behalf." 

"That  he  wasn't  to  be  allowed  to  come  up?" 

"Yes.     I  told  Henriques  to  get  rid  of  him." 

"Oh,  thank  you!  Thank  you!  I've  been  in  misery  all  day 
thinking  at  every  moment  that  he  might  open  my  door  and 
walk  in." 

"They  won't  let  him  up." 

"But  they  mightn't  happen  to  see  him.  If  'there  were  many 
people  in  the  hall  he  might  pass  by  unnoticed  and " 

"In  a  hotel  of  this  type  people  don't  pass  by  unnoticed.  You 
need  not  be  afraid." 

"But  I  am  horribly  afraid.  I  can't  help  it.  And  it's  so 
dreadful  not  daring  to  move.  It's — it's  like  living  in  a  night- 
mare !" 

"Come,  Miss  Van  Tuyn !"  said  Sir  Seymour,  and  in  his  voice 
and  manner  there  was  just  a  hint  of  the  old  disciplinarian, 
"pull  yourself  together.  You're  not  helpless,  and  you've  got 
friends." 

"Oh,  do  forgive  me !  I  know  I  have.  But  there's  something 
so  absolutely  hideous  in  feeling  like  this  about  a  man  who— 
whom  I " 

She  broke  off,  and  sat  down  on  a  sofa  abruptly,  almost  as  if 
her  limbs  had  given  way  under  her. 

"I  quite  understand  that.     I've  just  been  with  the  fellow." 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  started  up. 

"You've  seen  him?" 

"Yes." 

"Where?    Here?" 

"I  went  to  Mr.  Garstin's  studio  to  have  a  look  at  the  portrait 
and  say  a  word  to  him.     While  I  was  there  Arabian  called.    I 


526  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

stayed  on  and  sat  with  him  for  some  time.  Afterwards  I 
walked  with  him  to  the  building  where  he  is  living  temporarily 
and  went  in." 

"Went  in?     You  went  into  his  flat!" 

"As  I  say." 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  looked  at  him  without  speaking.  Her  ex- 
pression showed  intense  astonishment,  amounting  almost  to  in- 
credulity. 

"I  had  it  out  with  him,"  said  Sir  Seymour  grimly,  after  a 
pause.  "And  in  the  heat  of  the  moment  I  told  him  something 
which  I  had  not  intended  to  tell  him,  which  I  had  not  meant  to 
speak  of  at  all." 

"What?    What?" 

"I  told  him  I  knew  about  the  theft  of  ten  years  ago." 

"Oh!" 

"And  I  told  him  also  that  you  knew  about  it." 

"That  I— oh !     How  did  he  take  it?     What  did  he  say?" 

"I  didn't  wait  to  hear.  The  flat  was — well — scented,  and  I 
wanted  to  get  out  of  it." 

His  face  expressed  such  a  stem  and  acute  disgust  that  Miss 
Van  Tuyn's  eyes  dropped  beneath  his. 

"You  may  think — it  would  be  natural  to  think  that  the  fact 
of  my  having  told  the  man  about  your  knowledge  of  his  crime 
would  prevent  him  from  ever  attempting  to  see  you  again," 
Sir  Seymour  continued,  "but  I  don't  feel  sure  of  that." 

"You  think  that  even  after  that  he  might " 

"I'll  be  frank  with  you.  I  can't  tell  what  he  might  or  might 
not  do.     He  may  follow  my  suggestion " 

"What  did  you " 

"I  suggested  to  him  that  he  had  better  clear  out  of  the  coun- 
try at  once.  It's  quite  possible  that  he  may  take  my  view  and 
go,  but  in  case  he  doesn't,  and  tries  to  bother  you  any  more " 

"He's  been!  He's  written!  He  says  he  will  see  me.  He 
has  guessed  that  something  has  turned  me  against  him." 

"He  knows  now  what  it  is.  Now  I  want  you  to  write  a 
note  to  him  which  I  will  leave  at  the  bureau  in  case  he  calls 
to-night  or  to-morrow  morning." 

"Yes." 

She  went  to  the  writing-table  and  sat  down. 

"If  you  will  allow  me  I  will  suggest  the  wording." 


CHAPTER  XIV  DECEMBER  LO\B  527 

"Please — please  do!" 

She  took  up  a  pen  and  dipped  it  in  the  ink.  Then  Sir  Sey- 
mour dictated: 

Sir, — Sir  Seymour  Portman  has  told  me  of  his  meeting  with  you 
to-day  and  of  what  occurred  at  it.  What  he  said  to  you  about  me  is 
true.  I  know.  If  you  call  you  will  not  see  me.  I  refuse  absolutely  to  see 
you  or  to  have  anything  more  to  do  with  you,  now  or  at  any  future  time. 

"And  then  your  name  at  the  end." 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  wrote  with  a  hand  that  slightly  trembled, 
"B.  Van  Tuyn." 

"If  you  will  put  that  into  an  envelope  and  address  it  I  will 
take  it  down  and  leave  it  at  the  bureau." 

"Thank  you." 

Miss  Van  Tuyn  put  the  note  into  an  envelope,  closed  the  en- 
velope and  addressed  it. 

"That's  right." 

Sir  Seymour  held  out  his  hand  and  she  gave  him  the  note. 

"Now,  good  night." 

"You  are  going !" 

He  smiled  slightly. 

"I  don't  sleep  at  Claridge's  as  you  and  Miss  Cronin  do." 

"No,  of  course  not.  Thank  you  so  very,  very  much!  But 
I  can  never  thank  you  properly." 

She  paused.     Then  she  said  with  sudden  bitterness: 

"And  I  used  to  pride  myself  on  my  independence!" 

"Ah — independence !     A  word !"  said  Sir  Seymour. 

He  turned  away  to  go,  but  when  he  was  near  the  door  he 
stopped  and  seemed  hesitating. 

"What  is  it?"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn  anxiously. 

"Even  men  sometimes  have  instincts,"  he  said,  turning  round. 

"Yes?" 

"May  I  use  your  telephone?" 

"Of  course!     But— do  you " 

"Where Oh,  there  it  is!" 

He  went  to  it  and  called  up  the  bureau.  Then  he  said :  "Sir 
Seymour  Portman  is  speaking  from  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  sitting- 
room  ...  is  that  Mr.  Henriques?  Please  tell  me,  has  that 
man,  Arabian,  of  whom  we  spoke  just  now,  called  again  ?" 


DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

There  was  a  silence  in  which  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  watching,  saw 
a  frown  wrinkle  deeply  Sir  Seymour's  forehead. 

"Ah!  Has  he  gone?  Did  you  get  rid  of  him?  .  .  .  How 
long  ago  ?  .  .  .  Only  two  or  three  minutes !  .  .  .  Do  you  think 
he  knows  I  am  here?  .  .  .  Thank  you.  I'll  be  down  in  a  mo- 
ment." 

He  put  the  receiver  back. 

"Oh,  but  don't  leave  me !"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn  distractedly. 
"You  see,  in  spite  of  what  you  told  him  he  has  come!" 

"Yes.     He  has  been.     He's  a  determined  fellow." 

"He'll  never  give  it  up !     What  can  I  do  ?" 

"All  you  can  do  at  present  is  to  remain  quietly  up  here  in  your 
comfortable  rooms.     Leave  the  rest  to  me." 

"But  if  he  gets  in?" 

"He  won't.  Even  if  he  came  upstairs — and  he  won't  be  al- 
lowed to — he  has  no  key  of  your  outer  door.  Now  I'll  go  down 
and  leave  this  note  at  the  bureau.  If  he  comes  back  and  re- 
ceives it,  that  will  probably  decide  him  to  give  the  thing  up. 
He  is  counting  on  the  weakness  of  your  will.  This  note  will 
show  him  you  have  made  up  your  mind.  By  the  way" — he 
fixed  his  dark  eyes  on  her — "you  have  made  up  your  mind  ?" 

She  blushed  up  to  her  hair. 

"Oh,  yes— yes!" 

"Very  well.  To-morrow  I  shall  go  to  Scotland  Yard.  We'll 
get  him  out  of  the  country  one  way  or  another." 

She  accompanied  him  to  the  outer  door  of  the  apartment. 
When  he  had  gone  out  she  shut  it  behind  him,  and  he  heard 
the  click  of  a  bolt  being  pushed  home. 

Before  leaving  the  hotel  Sir  Seymour  again  sought  his  dis- 
creet friend  Henriques,  to  whom  he  gave  Miss  Van  Tuyn's 
note. 

"So  the  fellow  has  been?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  Sir  Seymour." 

"Did  you  get  rid  of  him  easily?" 

"Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  Sir  Seymour,  he  tried  to  be  obstinate. 
I  think — if  you'll  excuse  me — I  certainly  think  that  he  was 
slightly  under  the  influence  of  drink.  Not  drunk,  you'll  under- 
stand, not  at  all  as  much  as  that !     But  still " 

"Yes — yes.  If  he  comes  back  give  him  that  note.  And — 
do  you  think  it  would  be  wise  to  give  him  a  hint  that  any  further 


CHAPTER  XIV  DECEMBER  LOVE  529 

annoyance  might  lead  to  the  intervention  of  the  police?  The 
young  lady  is  very  much  upset  and  frightened.  Do  you  think 
you  might  drop  a  word  or  two — at  your  discretion?" 

"I'll  manage  it,  Sir  Seymour.     Leave  it  to^me!" 

"Very  good  of  you,  Henriques.     Good  night." 

"Good  night,  Sir  Seymour.  Always  very  glad  to  do  any- 
thing for  you." 

"Thank  you." 

As  Sir  Seymour  stepped  out  into  Brook  Street  he  glanced 
swiftly  up  and  down  the  thoroughfare.  But  he  did  not  see 
the  man  he  was  looking  for.  He  stood  still  for  a  moment. 
There  was  hesitation  in  his  mind.  The  natural  thing,  he  felt, 
would  be  to  go  at  once  to  Berkeley  Square  and  to  have  a  talk 
with  Adela.  It  was  late.  He  was  beginning  to  feel  hungry. 
Adela  would  give  him  some  dinner.  But — could  he  go  to 
Adela  just  now?  No;  he  could  not.  And  he  hailed  a  cab 
and  drove  home.  Something  the  beast  had  said  had  made  a 
horrible  impression  upon  the  faithful  lover,  an  impression 
which  remained  with  him,  which  seemed  to  be  eating  its  way, 
like  a  powerful  acid,  into  his  very  soul,  corroding,  destroying. 

Adela — young  Craven! 

Was  it  possible  ?  Was  there  then  never  to  be  an  end  to  that 
mania,  which,  had  been  Adela's  curse,  and  the  tragedy  of  the 
man  who  had  loved  her  with  the  long  love  which  is  so  rare 
among  men? 

There  was  bitterness  in  Sir  Seymour's  heart  that  night,  and 
that  bitterness  sent  him  home,  to  the  home  that  was  no  real 
home,  to  the  solitude  that  she  had  given  him. 


CHAPTER  XV 

ON  the  following  morning,  true  to  his  word,  Sir  Seymour 
visited  Scotland  Yard,  and  had  a  talk  with  a  certain 
authority  there  who  was  a  very  old  friend  of  his.  The  author- 
ity asked  a  few  questions,  but  no  questions  that  were  indis- 
creet, or  that  Sir  Seymour  was  unable  to  answer  without  betray- 
ing Lady  Sellingworth's  confidence.  The  sequel  to  this  con- 
versation was  that  a  tall,  thin,  lemon-coloured  man,  with  tight 
lips  and  small,  dull-looking  eyes,  which  saw  much  more  than 
most  bright  eyes  ever  see,  accompanied  Sir  Seymour  in  a  cab 
to  Glebe  Place.  They  arrived  there  about  half-past  eleven. 
Sir  Seymour  rang  the  bell,  and  in  a  moment  Dick  Garstin 
opened  the  door. 

"What's  the  matter?"  was  Sir  Seymour's  unconventional 
greeting  to  him. 

For  the  painter's  face  was  flushed  in  patches  and  his  small 
eyes  glowed  fiercely. 

"Who's  this?"  he  said,  looking  at  Sir  Seymour's  companion. 

"Detective  Inspector  Horridge — Mr.  Dick  Garstin,"  said 
Sir  Seymour. 

"Oh,  come  to  see  the  picture !  Well,  you're  too  late !"  said 
Garstin  in  a  harsh  voice. 

"Too  late!" 

"Yes,  a  damned  sight  too  late!     But,  come  up!" 

They  went  in,  and  Garstin,  without  any  more  words,  took 
them  up  to  the  studio. 

"There  you  are!"  he  said,  still  in  the  harsh  and  unnatural 
voice. 

He  flung  out  his  arm  towards  the  easel  which  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  room.  Sir  Seymour  and  the  inspector  went  up  to 
it.  Part  of  the  canvas  on  which  Arabian's  portrait  had  been 
painted  was  still  there.  But  the  head  and  face  had  been  cleanly 
cut  away.     Only  the  torso  remained. 

530 


CHAPTER  XV  DECEMBER  LOVE  681 

"When  was  this  done?"  asked  Sir  Seymour. 

"Some  time  last  night,  I  suppose." 

"But " 

"I  didn't  sleep  here.  I  often  don't,  more  often  than  not. 
But  last  night  I  was  a  fool  to  be  away.  Well,  I've  paid  for 
my  folly!" 

"But  how " 

"God  knows!  The  fellow  got  in.  It  doesn't  much  matter 
how.    A  false  key,  I  suppose." 

"Does  anyone  know  ?" 

"Not  a  soul,  except  us." 

Sir  Seymour  was  silent.  He  had  realized  at  once  that  Miss 
Van  Tuyn  was  safe  now,  safe,  too,  from  further  scandal,  unless 
Garstin  chose  to  make  trouble.  He  looked  at  the  painter,  and 
from  him  to  the  inspector. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  he  said  to  Dick  Garstin. 

"I  don't  know !"  said  Garstin. 

And  he  flung  himself  down  on  the  old  sofa  by  the  wall. 

"I  don't  know!" 

For  a  moment  he  put  his  hands  up  to  his  temples  and  stared 
on  the  ground.  As  he  sat  there  thus  he  looked  like  a  man  who 
had  just  been  thrashed.  After  a  moment  Sir  Seymour  went 
over  to  him  and  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

Garstin  looked  up. 

"What's  that  for?" 

He  stared  into  Sir  Seymour's  face  for  an  instant.  Perhaps 
he  read  something  there.  For  he  seemed  to  pull  himself  to- 
gether, and  got  up. 

"Well,  inspector,"  he  said,  "you've  had  your  visit  for  nothing. 
It  wasn't  a  bad  picture,  either.  I  should  like  you  to  have  had  a 
squint  at  it.  But — perhaps  I'll  do  better  yet.  Who  knows? 
Perhaps  I've  stuck  to  those  Cafe  Royal  types  too  long.  Eh, 
Sir  Seymour?  Perhaps  I'd  better  make  a  start  in  a  new  line. 
Have  a  whisky?" 

"Thank  you.  But  it's  rather  too  early,"  said  the  lemon- 
coloured  man.     "Do  you  wish " 

"No,  I  don't !"  said  Garstin.     "We'll  leave  it  at  that  ?" 

Again  he  flung  out  his  arm  towards  the  mutilated  canvas. 

"I  made  a  bargain  with  the  fellow  whose  portrait  that 
was.     I  was  to  paint  it  and  exhibit  it,  and  then  he  was  to  have  it. 


5S2  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

Well.  I  suppose  we're  about  quits.  I  can't  exhibit  it,  but  I'm 
damned  if  he  can  make  much  money  out  of  it.    We're  quits !" 

Sir  Seymour  turned  to  the  inspector. 

"Well,  inspector,  I'm  very  sorry  to  have  given  you  this  trou- 
ble for  nothing,"  he  said.  "I  know  you're  a  busy  man.  You 
take  the  cab  back  to  Scotland  Yard.  Here — you  must  allow 
me  to  pay  the  shot.  I'll  stay  on  for  a  few  minutes.  And" 
— he  glanced  towards  Garstin — "by  the  way,  we  may  as  well 
keep  this  matter  between  us,  if  Mr.  Garstin  is  good  enough 
to  agree." 

"I  agree!     I  agree!"  said  Garstin. 

"The  fact  is  there's  a  woman  in  it,  quite  a  girl.  We  don't 
want  a  scandal.  It  would  distress  her.  And  I  suppose  this 
is  really — this  outrage — I  suppose  it  is  purely  a  matter  for  Mr. 
Garstin  to  decide  whether  he  wishes  any  sequel  to  it  or  not." 

"Oh,  certainly,"  said  the  inspector.  "If  Mr.  Garstin  doesn't 
wish  any  action  to  be  taken " 

"I  don't!     That's  flat!" 

"Very  well,"  said  the  inspector.    "Good  morning.'* 

"Back  in  a  moment,"  said  Garstin  to  Sir  Seymour.  And  he 
went  downstairs  to  let  the  inspector  out. 

"So  that's  how  it  ends !"  said  Sir  Seymour  to  himself  when 
he  was  alone.     "That's  how  it  ends !" 

And  he  went  over  to  what  had  been  Arabian's  portrait,  and 
gazed  at  the  hole  which  surmounted  the  magnificent  torso.  He 
had  no  doubt  that  Arabian  had  gone  out  of  Miss  Van  Tuyn's 
life  for  ever.  Probably,  almost  certainly,  he  had  returned  to 
the  hotel  on  the  previous  evening,  had  been  given  the  note  Miss 
Van  Tuyn  had  written  to  dictation,  and  also  a  hint  from  that 
very  discreet  and  capable  fellow,  Henriques,  of  what  might 
happen  if  he  persisted  in  trying  to  force  himself  upon  her.  And 
then  he  had  come  to  the  decision  which  had  led  to  the  outrage 
in  the  studio.  Where  was  he  now?  No  longer  in  Rose  Tree 
Gardens  if  Sir  Seymour  knew  anything  of  men. 

"The  morning  boat  to  Paris,  and — the  underworld !"  Sir  Sey- 
mour muttered  to  himself. 

"Not  much  to  look  at  now,  is  it?"  said  Garstin's  voice  behind 
him. 

He  turned  round  quickly. 


CHAPTER  XV  DECEMBER  LOVE  6SS 

Garstin  was  gazing  at  his  ruined  masterpiece  with  a  curious 
twisted  smile. 

"What  can  one  say?"  said  Sir  Seymour.  "When  Horridge 
was  here  I  thought:  'When  he's  gone  I'll  tell  Mr.  Garstin!' 
And  now  he  is  gone,  and — and " 

He  went  up  to  Garstin  and  held  out  his  h3.nd. 

"I  know  I  don't  understand  what  you  feel  about  this.  No 
one  could  but  a  fellow-painter  as  big  as  you  are.  But  I  wish  I 
could  make  you  understand  what  I  feel  about  something  else." 

"And  what's  that?"  said  Garstin,  as  he  took  Sir  Seymour's 
hand,  almost  doubtfully. 

"About  the  way  you've  taken  it,  and  your  letting  the  black- 
guard off." 

"Oh,  as  to  that,  I  bet  you  he'll  be  in  Paris  by  five  to-day." 

"Just  what  I  think.     But  still " 

He  pressed  Garstin's  hand,  and  Garstin  returned  the  pres- 
sure. 

"Beryl  wanted  me  to  paint  him,  but  I  painted  him  to  please 
myself.    I'm  a  selfish  brute,  like  most  painters,  I  suppose." 

"But  you're  letting  him  go  because  of  Miss  Van  Tuyn." 

"Damn  it,  I  believe  I  am.  I  say,  are  you  ever  coming  here 
again  ?" 

"If  I  may." 

"I  wish  you  would." 

He  gazed  at  Sir  Seymour's  strong  head. 

"I've  spent  half  my  life  in  showing  people  up  on  canvas," 
he  said.     "I  should  like  to  try  something  else." 

"And  what's  that?" 

"I  should  like  to  try  to  reveal  the  underneath  fine  instead 
of  the  underneath  filth.     It'd  be  a  new  experiment  for  me." 

He  laughed. 

"Perhaps  I  should  make  a  failure  of  it.  But— if  you'd  allow 
me — I  would  try  to  make  a  start  with  you." 

"I  can  only  say  I  shall  be  honoured,"  said  Sir  Seymour,  with 
a  touch  of  almost  shamefaced  modesty  which  he  endeavoured 
to  hide  with  a  very  grave  courtliness,  "Please  let  me  know, 
if  you  don't  change  your  mind.  I'm  a  good  bit  battered,  but 
such  as  I  am  I  am  always  at  your  service— out  of  work  hours." 

His  last  words  to  Garstin  at  the  street  door  were : 

"You've  taught  an  old  soldier  how  to  take  a  hard  knock." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

SIR  SEYMOUR  usually  called  on  Lady  Sellingworth  about 
five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when  he  was  not  detained  by 
work  or  inevitable  engagements.  On  the  day  of  his  visit  to 
Garstin's  studio  with  the  inspector  he  felt  that  he  owed  it  to 
Adela  to  go  to  Berkeley  Square  and  to  tell  her  what  had  hap- 
pened in  connexion  with  Arabian  since  he  had  last  seen  her. 
She  must  be  anxious  for  news.  It  was  not  likely  that  she  had 
seen  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  that  beautiful  prisoner  in  Claridge's  hotel. 
Miss  Van  Tuyn  might  have  telephoned  to  her  and  told  her  of 
his  visits  to  the  hotel.  But  Adela  would  certainly  expect  to  see 
him,  would  certainly  be  waiting  for  him.  He  ought  to  go  to 
her.  Since  the  morning  he  had  been  very  busy.  He  had  not 
had  time  to  call  again  on  Miss  Van  Tuyn,  who  could,  therefore 
— so  at  least  he  believed — know  nothing  of  the  outrage  in  the 
studio.  That  piece  of  news,  which  would  surely  be  welcome 
to  her  if  she  understood  what  it  implied,  should  rightly  come 
to  her  from  the  woman  who  had  been  unselfish  for  her  sake. 
Adela  ought  to  tell  her  that.  But  first  it  was  his  duty  to  tell 
Adela.     He  must  go  to  Berkeley  Square. 

And  he  decided  to  go  and  set  out  on  foot.  But  as  he  walked 
he  was  conscious  of  a  strange  and  hideous  reluctance  to  pay  the 
customary  visit — the  visit  which  had  been  the  bright  spot  in 
his  day  for  so  long.  He  had  interfered  with  the  design  of  Ara- 
bian. But  Arabian  unconsciously  had  stabbed  him  to  the  heart 
with  a  sentence,  meant  to  be  malicious,  about  Adela,  but  surely 
not  intended  to  pierce  him. 

Young   Craven!     Young  Craven! 

When  he  reached  the  familiar  door  and  was  standing  before  it 
he  hesitated  to  press  the  bell,  He  feared  that  he  would  not  be 
perfectly  natural  with  Adela.  He  feared  that  he  would  be  con- 
strained, that  he  would  be  unable  not  to  seem  cold  and  rigid. 
Almost  he  was  tempted  to  turn  away.  He  could  write  his  news 
to  her.     Perhaps  even  now  young  Craven  was  in  the  house  with 

534 


CHAPTER  XVI  DECEMBER  LOVE  535 

her.  Perhaps  he,  the  old  man,  would  be  unwanted,  would  only 
be  in  the  way  if  he  went  in.  But  it  was  not  his  habit  to  recoil 
from  anything  and,  after  a  moment  of  uneasy  waiting,  he  put 
his  hand  to  the  bell. 

Murgatroyd  opened  the  door. 

"Good  day,  Murgatroyd.     Is  her  Ladyship  at  home?" 

"Yes,  Sir  Seymour." 

He  stepped  into  the  hall,  left  his  hat,  coat  and  stick,  and 
prepared  to  go  upstairs. 

"Anyone  with  her  Ladyship?" 

"No,  Sir  Seymour.     Her  Ladyship  is  alone." 

A  moment  later  Murgatroyd  opened  the  drawing-room  door 
and  made  the  familiar  announcement: 

"Sir  Seymour  Portman!" 

Adela  was  as  usual  on  the  sofa  by  the  tea-table,  near  to  the 
fireplace  in  which  ship  logs  were  blazing.  She  got  up  to  greet 
him,  and  looked  at  him  eagerly,  almost  anxiously. 

"I  was  hoping  you  would  come.     Has  anything  happened?" 

"Yes,  a  great  deal,"  he  said,  as  he  took  her  hand. 

"Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that?"  she  asked. 

"But — do  I  look  at  you  differently  from " 

"Yes,"  she  interrupted  him. 

He  lowered  his  eyes,  feeling  almost  guilty. 

"But  in  what  way?" 

"As  if  you  wanted  to  know  something,  as  if — have  you 
changed  towards  me?" 

"My  dear  Adela !  What  a  question  from  you  after  all  these 
years !" 

"You  might  change," 

"Nonsense,  my  dear." 

"No,  no,  it  is  not !  Anyone  may  change.  We  are  all  incal- 
culable." 

"Give  me  some  tea  now.     And  let  me  tell  you  my  news." 

She  sat  down  again,  but  her  luminous  eyes  were  still  fixed  on 
him,  and  there  was  an  almost  terrified  expression  in  them." 

"You  haven't  seen — ^him?"  she  asked. 

"Yes." 

"You  have!  I  felt  it!  He  has  said  something  about  me, 
something  horrible!" 


536  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

"Adela,  do  you  really  think  I  would  take  an  opinion  of  you 
from  a  blackguard  like  that?" 

"Please  tell  me  everything,"  she  said. 

She  looked  painfully  agitated,  and  something  in  her  agitation 
made  him  feel  very  tender,  for  it  gave  her  in  his  eyes  a  strange 
semblance  of  youthfulness.  Yes,  despite  all  she  had  done,  all 
the  years  she  had  lived  through,  there  was  something  youthful 
in  her  still.  Perliaps  it  was  that  which  persistently  held  out 
hands  to  youth!  The  thought  struck  him  and  the  tenderness 
was  lessened  in  his  eyes. 

"Seymour,  you  are  hiding  something  from  me,"  she  said. 

"Adela,  give  me  a  little  time!  I  am  going  to  tell  you  my 
news." 

"Yes,  yes,  please  do!" 

"I   want  my  tea,"  he   said,  with  a  smile. 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon!" 

"How  young  you  are!"  he  said. 

"Young!     How  can  you  say  such  a  thing?" 

"Now  really,  Adela!  As  if  I  could  ever  be  sarcastic  with 
you!" 

"That  remark  could  only  be  sarcastic." 

He  sipped  his  tea. 

"No;  you  will  always  have  youth  in  you.  It  is  undying. 
It  makes  half  your  charm,  my  dear.     And  perhaps " 

"Yes?" 

"Well,  perhaps  it  has  caused  most  of  the  trouble  in  your 
life." 

She  looked  down. 

"Our  best  gifts  have  their — what  shall  I  say — their  shady 
side,  I  suppose.  And  we  seem  to  have  to  pay  very  often  for 
what  are  thought  of  as  gifts.     But  now  I  must  tell  you." 

"Yes." 

And  then  he  began  to  relate  to  her,  swiftly  although  he  was 
old,  the  events  of  his  mission.  She  listened,  and  while  she  lis- 
tened she  sat  very  still.  She  had  looked  up.  Her  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  him.  Presently  he  reached  the  point  in  his  narrative 
where  Arabian  walked  into  Dick  Garstin's  studio.  Then  she 
moved.  She  seemed  suddenly  seized  with  an  uncontrollable 
restlessness.  He  went  on  without  looking  at  her,  but  he  heard 
her  movements,  the  rustle  of  her  gown,  the  touch  of  her  hand 


CHAPTER  XVI  DECEMBER  LOVE  687 

on  a  sofa  cushion,  on  the  tea-table,  the  chink  of  moved  china 
touching  other  china.  And  two  or  three  times  he  heard  the 
faint  sound  of  her  breathing.  He  knew  she  was  suffering  in- 
tensely, and  he  believed  it  was  because  of  the  haunting,  inexor- 
able remembrance  of  the  enticement  that  abominable  fellow, 
Arabian,  had  had  for  her.  But  he  had  to  go  on.  And  he 
went  on  till  he  came  to  the  scene  in  the  flat  in  Rose  Tree  Gar- 
dens. 

"You — you  went  to  his  room!"  she  then  said,  interrupting 
him. 

"Yes." 

He  heard  her  sigh.  But  she  said  nothing  more.  He  told 
what  had  happened  in  the  fiat,  but  not  fully.  He  said  nothing  of 
Arabian's  mention  of  her  name,  but  he  did  tell  her  that  he  him- 
self had  spoken  of  her,  had  said  that  he  was  a  friend  of  hers. 
And  finally  he  told  her  how,  carried  away  by  indignation,  he 
had  spoken  of  his  and  Miss  Van  Tuyn's  knowledge  that  Arabian 
had  stolen  her  jewels. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  tell  him  that,"  he  added.  "But— well, 
it  came  out.    I — I  hope  you  forgive  me?" 

He  did  not  wait  for  her  answer,  but  told  her  of  his  abrupt 
departure  from  the  flat,  and  of  his  subsequent  visit  to  Miss  Van 
Tuyn,  of  what  he  had  learnt  at  the  hotel,  and  of  what  he  had 
done  there. 

"The  police!"  she  said,  as  if  startled.  "But  if— if  there 
should  be  a  scandal !  Oh,  Seymour,  that  would  be  too  horrible ! 
I  couldn't  bear  that !  He  might— it  might  come  out !  And  my 
name " 

She  got  up  from  the  sofa.  Her  face  looked  drawn  with  an 
anxiety  that  was  like  agony.     He  got  up  too. 

"It  was  only  a  threat.  But  in  any  case  it  will  be  all  right, 
Adela." 

"But  we  don't  know  what  he  may  do !"  she  said,  with  des- 
peration. 

"Wait  till  you  know  what  he  has  done." 

"What  has  he  done?" 

And  then  he  told  her  of  the  outrage  in  the  studio.  When 
he  was  silent  she  made  a  slight  swaying  movement  and  took 
hold  of  the  mantelpiece.  He  saw  by  her  face  that  she  had 
grasped  at  once  what  Arabian's  action  implied. 


638  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

Flight! 

"You  see — he's  done  with.  We've  done  with  the  fellow!" 
he  said  at  last  as  she  did  not  speak. 

"Yes." 

Her  face,  when  not  interfered  with,  was  always  pale.  But 
now  it  looked  horribly,  unnaturally  white.  Relief,  he  believed, 
had  shaken  her  in  the  very  soul. 

"Adela,  did  you  think  your  good  deed  was  going  to  recoil  on 
you?"  he  said.  "Did  you  really  think  it  was  going  to  bring 
punishment  on  you  ?  I  don't  believe  things  go  like  that  even  in 
this  distracted,  inexplicable  old  world." 

"Don't  they?     Mightn't  they?" 

"Surely  not.  You  have  saved  that  girl.  You  have  paid  back 
that  scoundrel.     And  you  have  nothing  to  fear." 

"Why  did  you  look  at  me  like  that  when  you  came  into  the 
room  ?" 

"But  you  are " 

"No.     You  haven't  told  me  something.     Tell  me!" 

"Be  happy  in  the  good  result  of  your  self-sacrifice,  Adela." 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me.  There  is  something.  I  know  there 
is." 

"Yes.     But  it  only  concerns  me." 

"Seymour,  I  don't  believe  that !" 

He  was  silent,  looking  at  her  with  the  old  dog's  eyes.  But 
now  there  was  something  else  in  them  besides  faithfulness. 

"Well,  Adela,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  believe  very  much  in  abso- 
lute sincerity  between  real  friends.  But  I  suppose  friendship 
must  be  very  real  indeed  to  stand  absolute  sincerity.  Don't  you 
think  so?" 

"Yes,  I  do.  But  our  friendship  is  as  real  as  any  friendship 
can  be,  I  think." 

"Yes,  but  on  my  side  it  is  mixed  up,  it  has  always  been  mixed 
up,  with  something  else." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"And  besides  I'm  afraid,  if  I  speak  quite  frankly,  I  shall 
hurt  you,  my  dear!" 

"Then — hurt  me,  Seymour !" 

"Shall  I?     Can  I  do  that?" 

"Be  frank  with  me.  I  have  been  very  frank  with  you.  I 
have  told  you." 


CHAPTER  XVI  DECEMBER  LOVE  639 

"Yes,  indeed.  You  have  been  nobly,  gloriously  frank.  Well, 
then — that  horrible  fellow  did  say  something  which  I  haven't 
told  you,  something  that,  I  confess  it,  has  upset  me." 

"What  was  it  ?"  she  said,  still  in  the  low  voice,  and  bending 
her  small  head  a  little  like  one  expecting  punishment. 

"He  alluded  to  a  friend  of  yours.  He  mentioned  that  nice 
boy  I  met  here,  young  Craven." 

"Yes?" 

"I  really  can't  get  what  he  said  over  my  lips,  Adela." 

"I  know  what  he  said.     You  needn't  tell  me." 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  minute.  Then  she  came  close  to 
him. 

"Seymour,  perhaps  you  want  to  ask  me  a  question  about  Mr. 
Craven.  But — don't!  You  needn't.  I  have  done,  absolutely 
done,  with  all  the  side  of  my  life  which  you  hate.  A  part  of 
my  nature  has  persecuted  me.  It  has  often  led  me  into  follies 
and  worse,  as  you  know.  But  I  have  done  with  it.  Indeed,  in- 
deed I  can  answer  for  myself.  I  wouldn't  dare  to  speak  like 
this  to  you,  the  soul  of  sincerity,  if  I  couldn't.  But  I'll  prove 
it  to  you.  Seymour,  you  know  what  I  am.  I  dare  say  you 
have  always  known.     But  the  other  night  I  told  you  myself." 

"Yes." 

"If  I  hadn't  I  shouldn't  dare  now  to  ask  you  what  I  am 
going  to  ask  you.  Is  it  possible  that  you  still  love  me  enough 
to  care  to  be  more  than  the  friend  you  have  always  been  to 
me?" 

"Do  you  mean " 

He  paused. 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"I  ask  nothing  more  of  life  than  that,  Adela." 

"Nor  do  I,  dear  Seymour." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THAT  evening  Miss  Van  Tuyn  learnt  through  the  telephone 
from  Lady  Sellingworth  what  had  happened  in  Dick  Gar- 
stin's  studio  during  the  previousrnight.  On  the  following  morn- 
ing at  breakfast  time  she  learnt- from  Sir  Seymour  that  the  flat 
in  Rose  Tree  Gardens  had  been  abruptly  deserted  by  its  tenant, 
who  had  left  very  early  the  day  before. 

She  was  free  from  persecution,  and,  of  course,  she  realized 
her  freedom;  but,  so  strange  are  human  impulses,  she  was  at 
first  unable  to  be  happy  in  her  knowledge  that  the  burden  of 
fear  had  been  lifted  from  her.  The  misfortune  which  had 
fallen  on  Dick  Garstin  obsessed  her  mind.  Her  egoism  was 
drowned  in  her  passionate  anger  at  what  Arabian  had  done. 
She  went  early  to  the  studio  and  found  Garstin  there  alone. 

"Hulloh,  Beryl,  my  girl !"  he  said,  in  his  usual  offhand  man- 
ner.    "Come  round  to  see  the  remains?" 

"Oh,  Dick !"  she  exclaimed,  grasping  his  hand.  "Oh,  I'm 
so  grieved,  so  horrified !  What  an  awful  thing  to  happen  to 
you !  And  it's  all  my  fault !  Where — what  have  you  done 
with " 

"What's  left,  do  you  mean?    Go  and  see  for  yourself." 

She  hurried  upstairs  to  the  studio.  When  he  followed  he 
found  her  standing  before  the  mutilated  picture,  which  was  still 
in  its  place,  with  tears  rolling  down  her  flushed  cheeks. 

"Good  God !  Beryl !  What's  up  ?  What  are  you  whimper- 
ing about?" 

"How  you  must  hate  me!"  she  said,  in  a  broken  voice. 
"How  you  must  hate  me  1" 

"Rubbish!     What  for?" 

"This  has  all  happened  because  of  me.  If  it  hadn't  been  for 
me  you  would  never  have  painted  him." 

"I  painted  the  fellow  to  please  myself." 

"But  I  asked  you  to  get  him  to  come  here." 

"What  you  ask,  or  don't  ask,  doesn't  bother  me." 

540 


CHAPTER  XVII  DECEMBER  LOVE  541 

She  gazed  at  him  through  her  tears  as  if  in  surprise. 

"Dick,  I  never  thought  you  could  be  like  this,"  she  said. 

"Like  what?  What's  all  the  fuss  about?"  he  exclaimed 
irritably. 

"I  always  thought  you  were  really  a  brute." 

"That  showed  your  sound  judgment." 

"How  can  you  take  it  like  this  ?  Your  masterpiece — ruined ! 
For  you'll  never  do  anything  like  it  again." 

"That's  probably  gospel  truth.  My  girl,  you  are  standing  in 
front  of  my  epitaph  on  the  Cafe  Royal.  There  it  is.  Look 
well  at  it !  I've  buried  my  past,  and  I'm  going  to  start  again. 
And  who  do  you  think  is  to  be  my  next  victim  ?' 

"Who?" 

"You'll  never  guess — a  gentleman!" 

"A  gentleman?  What  do  you  mean,  Dick?  The  word 
has  gone  out." 

"But  not  the  thing,  thank  God,  so  long  as  Sir  Seymour  Port- 
man  keeps  about  on  his  dear  old  pins." 

"You  are  going  to  paint  Sir  Seymour?" 

"I  am!     Think  I  can  do  him?" 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  her  violet  eyes  searched 
him  as  if  to  see  whether  he  were  worthy.  Then  she  said 
soberly : 

"Yes,  Dick!" 

"Then  let's  turn  the  damned  epitaph  with  its  hole  to  the 
wall!" 

And  he  lifted  what  remained  of  Arabian's  portrait  from  the 
easel  and  threw  it  into  a  dark  corner  of  the  studio. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

ONE  evening,  some  ten  days  later,  before  any  rumour  of 
Lady  Sellingworth's  new  decision  had  got  about  in  the 
world  of  London,  before  even  Braybrooke  knew,  on  coming 
home  from  the  Foreign  Office  Craven  found  a  note  lying  on  the 
table  in  the  tiny  hall  of  his  flat.  He  picked  it  up  and  saw  Miss 
Van  Tuyn's  handwriting.  He  had  not  seen  either  her  or  Lady 
Sellingworth  since  the  evening  when  they  had  met  in  the  Bella 
Napoli.  Both  women  had  come  into  his  life  together.  And  it 
seemed  to  him  that  both  had  gone  out  of  it  together.  His 
acquaintance,  or  friendship,  with  them  had  been  a  short  episode 
in  his  pilgrimage,  and  apparently  the  episode  was  definitely  over. 
But  now — here  was  a  letter  from  the  beautiful  girl !  He  took 
it  up,  carried  it  into  his  sitting-room,  and  tore  open  the  envelope. 

"Claridge's, 

"Thursday. 
"My  dear  Mr.  Craven, — I  am  going  back  to  Paris  almost  directly  and 
should  very  much  like  to  see  you  if  possible  to  say  good-bye.     Have 
you  a  few  minutes  to  spare  any  time?     If  so,  do  come  round  to  the 
hotel  and  let  us  have  a  last  little  talk. — Yours  sincerely, 

"Beryl  Van  Tuyn." 

When  he  had  read  this  brief  note  Craven  was  struck,  as  he 
had  been  struck  when  he  had  read  Lady  Sellingworth's  letter  to 
him,  by  a  certain  finality  in  the  wording.  Good-bye — a  last 
little  talk !  Miss  Van  Tuyn  might  have  put  "au  revoir,"  might 
have  omitted  the  word  "last." 

He  looked  at  the  clock.  It  was  not  very  late — only  half  past 
five.  He  decided  to  go  at  once  to  the  hotel.  And  he  went. 
Miss  Van  Tuyn  was  at  home.  He  went  up  in  the  lift  and  was 
shown  into  her  sitting-room.  He  waited  there  for  a  few  min- 
utes.    Then  the  door  opened  and  she  came  in  smiling. 

"How  good  of  you  to  come  so  soon!  I  hardly  expected 
you." 

542 


CHAPTER  xviii  DECEMBER  LOVE  64S 

"But — why  not?"  he  said,  as  he  took  her  hand. 

She  glanced  at  him  inquiringly,  he  thought,  then  said: 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!  You're  a  busy  man,  and  have  lots  of 
engagements.     Let  us  sit  by  the  fire." 

"Yes." 

They  sat  down,  and  there  was  a  moment  of  silence.  For 
once  Miss  Van  Tuyn  seemed  slightly  embarrassed — not  quite  at 
her  ease.  Craven  did  not  help  her.  He  still  remembered  the 
encounter  in  Glebe  Place  with  a  feeling  of  anger.  He  still  felt 
that  he  moved  in  a  certain  darkness,  that  both  Lady  Selling- 
worth  and  Miss  Van  Tuyn  had  been  unkind  to  him,  had  treated 
him  if  not  badly,  at  any  rate  in  a  way  that  was  unfriendly,  and, 
to  him,  inexplicable.  He  did  not  want  to  seem  hurt,  but,  on  the 
other  hand,  he  did  not  feel  that  it  was  incumbent  upon  him  to 
rush  forward  with  gracious  eagerness,  or  to  show  any  keen 
desire  for  the  old,  intimate  relations.  So  he  just  sat  there  try- 
ing not  to  look  stiff,  but  not  making  any  effort  to  look  charming 
and  sympathetic. 

"Have  you  seen  Adela  lately?"  Miss  Van  Tuyn  said  at  last, 
breaking  the  silence. 

"No,"  he  said.  "Not  since  that  night  when  we  met  in  the 
Bella  Napoli." 

"Oh,  that's  too  bad!" 

"Why  too  bad?" 

"I  thought  you  were  such  friends !" 

"Scarcely  that,  I  think,"  replied  Craven,  in  his  most  definitely 
English  manner.  "I  like  Lady  Sellingworth  very  much,  but  she 
has  swarms  of  friends,  and  I  can't  expect  her  to  bother  very 
much  about  me." 

"But  I  don't  think  she  has  swarms  of  friends." 

"Perhaps  nobody  has.  Still,  she  knows  a  tremendous  num- 
ber of  people." 

"I  am  sure  she  likes  you,"  said  Miss  Van  Tuyn.  "Do  go 
and  see  her  sometimes.  I  think— I  think  she  would  appre- 
ciate it." 

"No  doubt  I  shall  see  her  again.    Why  not?" 

"Don't  you  like  her  any  more  ?" 

"Of  course  I  do." 

Suddenly  she  leaned  forward,  almost  impulsively,  and  said: 

"You  remember  I  had  a  sort  of  cult  for  Adela?" 


544.  DECEMBER  LOVE  part  six 

"Did  you?" 

"But  you  know  I  had!  Well,  I  only  want  to  tell  you  that 
it  isn't  a  cult  now.  I  have  got  to  know  Adela  better,  to  know 
her  really.  I  used  to  admire  her  as  a  great  lady.  Now  I  love 
her  as  a  splendid  woman.  She's  rare.  That  is  the  word  for 
her.  Once — not  long  ago — I  was  talking  to  a  man  who  knows 
what  people  are.  And  he  summed  Adela  up  in  a  phrase.  He 
said  she  was  a  thoroughbred.  We  young  ones — modern,  I  sup- 
pose we  are — we  can  learn  something  from  her.  I  have  learnt 
something.  Isn't  that  an  admission  ?  For  the  young  generation 
to  acknowledge  that  it  has  something  to  learn  from — from  what 
are  sometimes  called  the  'has  beens' !" 

Craven  looked  at  her  and  noticed  with  surprise  that  her  violet 
eyes  were  clouded  for  a  moment,  as  if  some  moisture  had  found 
its  way  into  them.  Perhaps  she  saw  that  look  of  his.  For  she 
laughed,  changed  the  conversation,  and  from  that  moment  talked 
in  her  usual  lively  way  about  less  intimate  topics.  But  when 
Craven  presently  got  up  to  go  she  returned  for  a  moment  to 
her  former  more  serious  mood.  As  he  took  her  hand  to  say 
good-bye  she  said : 

"Perhaps  we  shall  meet  again — perhaps  not.  I  don't  know 
when  I  shall  be  back  in  London.  I'm  soon  going  over  to  Amer- 
ica with  Fanny.    But  don't  think  too  badly  of  me." 

"I?    How  could  I  think  badly  of  you?" 

"Oh,  yes — you  might!  There  are  things  I  can't  explain, 
which  may  easily  have  given  you  a  nasty  impression  of  me. 
If  I  could  explain  them  perhaps  you  would  remember  me  more 
pleasantly.  Anyhow,  I  shall  always  think  of  you  as  one  of  my 
friends.    Good-bye." 

And  then  she  moved  away,  and  he  went  to  the  door. 

But  just  as  he  was  going  out  he  turned  round  and  said : 

"Au  revoir !" 

She  made  a  little  kind  gesture  with  her  left  hand,  but  she 
said  nothing. 

At  that  moment  she  was  thinking  of  Adela. 


THE  END 


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